'yerena  in  ihe 
Widsi . 


STV^^ucas 


Author  of  "Th.eVern  ilion  Box/'  ''Over  Bemer  tons,"  etc.,  ctc.^ 


0 


VERENA 
IN  THE  MIDST 

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VERENA 
IN  THE  MIDST 

A   KIND    OF    A    STORY 

BY 

E.  V.  LUCAS 

AUTHOR    OF    "the    VERMILION    BOX," 

"over  bemerton's,"  etc. 


NEW  ^^ifijr  YORK 
GEORGE    H.  DORAN    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  GEORGE   H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  Of  AMERICA 


TTxrr,^   THE  LIBRARY 
.UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNU' 
SANTA  BARBARA 


TO 

FRANCES 

AND 

SIDNEY 
COLVIN 


TO  THE  READER 

THE  correspondence  from  which  the  letters 
in  this  book  have  been  selected  passed  (with 
the  exception  of  the  last)  during  1919.  The  last 
is  a  little  later. 

Mr.  Richard  Haven,  some  of  whose  letters  are 
to  be  found  in  a  preceding  volume,  The  Vewiilion 
Box,  is  still  a  bachelor  and  still  lives  in  Mills 
Buildings,  Knightsbridge,  but  is  doubtful  if  he 
can  aiford  it  much  longer. 

Miss  Verena  Raby,  the  centre  of  this  epistolary 
circle,  is  one  of  Mr.  Haven's  oldest  friends.  Old 
Place,  the  ancestral  home  over  which  she  now 
reigns,  is  near  Kington  in  Herefordshire,  on  the 
borders  of  England  and  the  Principality  which 
provides  us  impartially  with  perplexities  and 
saviours.  Miss  Raby  is  one  of  a  family  of  nine, 
but  none  of  the  others  neglect  any  opportunity  of 
postponing  letter-writing.  Of  these  brothers  and 
sisters,  all  save  one — Lucilla,  Nesta's  mother — are 
living,  or  were  living  when  these  pages  went  to 
press. 

[vii] 


TO  THE    READER 


Nesta  Rossiter,  who  is  managing  Old  Place 
during  Miss  Raby's  illness,  married  Fred  Rossiter, 
an  amateur  painter,  and  they  have  three  children, 
Antoinette  (or  "Tony"),  Lobbie  and  Cyril. 

Emily  Goodyer  is  the  children's  nurse.  She  is 
also  the  fiancee  of  Bert  Urible,  greengrocer,  soldier 
and  then  greengrocer  again. 

Theodore  Raby  is  Verena's  brother  and  a 
widower  with  one  daughter,  Josey. 

Walter  Raby,  another  brother,  is  ranching  in 
Texas. 

Hazel  Barrance,  daughter  of  Clara  Raby,  is 
another  of  Miss  Raby's  nieces.  She  was  a  V.A.D. 
during  the  War,  but  has  now  returned  to  Kensing- 
ton routine,  in  a  not  too  congenial  home.  Her 
brother  Roy  also  finds  Peace  heavy  on  his  hands 
but  has  more  chances  for  liberty  and  diversion, 
and  grasps  most  of  them. 

Evangeline  Barrance,  a  sister  still  at  school,  is 
one  of  the  youngest  editors  in  Europe. 

Mr.  Horace  Mun-Brown,  Miss  Raby's  nephew 
and  a  briefless  barrister,  lives  in  the  Temple  on 
a  small  income  and  a  sanguine  disposition. 

Mr.  Septimus  Tribe,  the  husband  of  Verena's 
youngest  sister,  Letitia,  and  by  some  years  her 
[viii] 


TO  THE   READER 


senior,  was  at  the  Board  of  Trade,  but  is  now  in 
retirement  at  Tunbridge  Wells. 

Clemency  Power  is  an  Irish  girl  who  managed 
to  get  out  to  France  during  the  War,  although 
under  age,  and  was  so  happy  and  busy  there  that 
she  abandoned  idleness  permanently.  Her  mother, 
a  widow,  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  peer,  lives  with 
Clemency's  two  younger  sisters  near  Kenmare. 
Patricia,  aged  nineteen,  is  the  only  one  who  comes 
into  this  correspondence. 

Miss  Louisa  Parrish,  who  was  at  school  with 
Verena  and  looks  upon  that  accident  as  an  indis- 
soluble bond,  lives  frugally  but  with  no  loss  of 
social  position  in  her  late  father's  house  in  a 
Berkshire  village. 

Nicholas  Devose  is  a  traveller  and  artist  who 
came  nearer  marrying  Verena  Raby  than  any 
other  man  has  done. 

Bryan  Field  is  a  young  doctor  whose  path 
crossed  that  of  Clemency  Power  in  France  during 
the  War. 

Sir  Smithfield  Mark  is  one  of  the  leading  sur- 
geons at  Bart's. 

Sinclair  Ferguson  is  Miss  Raby's  doctor. 

[ix] 


TO  THE   READER 


Lady  Sandys  is  a  neighbour  of  the  Rossiters  in 
Kent. 

Vincent  Frank  is  remaining  in  the  R.A.F. 
although  the  War  is  over. 

Mrs.  Carlyon,  whom  we  meet  at  once,  only  to 
lose  her  again,  is  a  neighbour  of  Miss  Raby  at 
Kington. 

E.  V.  L. 


H 


VERENA  IN  THE  MIDST 


VERENA  IN  THE  MIDST 

I 

Rhoda  Carlyon  to  Nesta  Rossiter 
[  Telegram  ] 

MISS  RABY  has  had  an  accident  and  has 
asked    for  you.      No   immediate   danger. 
Hope  you  can  come  quickly. 

II 

Rhoda  Carlyon  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  Mr.  Haven, — I  am  sorry  to  have  rather 
bad  news  for  you.  My  neighbour,  Miss  Raby,  has 
had  the  misfortune  to  fall  and  hurt  her  spine,  and 
Mr.  Ferguson,  our  doctor,  is  afraid  that  she  may 
have  to  He  up  for  some  long  time.  She  is  not  in 
much  pain,  but  must  be  very  quiet.      She  was 

[13] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


anxious  that  you  should  be  told.  It  was  fortunate 
that  I  was  at  home  when  the  accident  happened, 
as  her  maids  are  not  good  in  emergencies.  Mr. 
Ferguson,  who  is  exceptionally  capable  for  a 
country  place,  will  call  in  a  specialist,  but  I  fear 
there  is  no  doubt  about  the  seriousness  of  the 
injury  and  that  her  recovery  will  bq.  a  long  busi- 
ness. Miss  Raby  is  very  brave  and  even  smiling 
over  it,  but  for  anyone  so  active  and  so  much  in- 
terested in  the  life  around  her  it  will  be  a  trial. 
She  is  hoping  for  one  of  her  nieces,  Mrs.  Rossiter, 
to  come  directly. — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Rhoda  Carlyon 

III 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Dearest  Verena,  your  letter — or  rather  Mrs. 
Carlyon's,  containing  your  bad  news — gave  me 
a  shock.  Do  you  really  mean  to  say  you  will 
have  to  lie  up  for  months — flat  and  helpless? 
This  is  terrible  for  you — and  for  us.  Of  course  I 
shall  come  and  see  you  as  soon  as  may  be;  but  it 
can't  be  yet.  Why  do  you  live  so  far  away*?  And 
I  will  write,  but  if  you  cannot  use  your  hands  you 

[14] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


must  get  either  Mrs.  Carlyon  or  Nesta  (if  she  is 
there)  to  answer  a  number  of  questions  at  once. 
(I  am  glad  Nesta  is  coming.) 

(a)  Can  you  use  your  hands? 

(b)  Does  it  tire  you  too  much  to  read? 

(c)  Have  you  much  or  any  pain? 

(d)  WTiat  can  I  do  for  you  first? 

(e)  Have  you  a  library  subscription? 

(f)  Is  there  anyone  in  the  neighbourhood  who 

can  read  aloud,  endurably? 

(g)  (Don't  worry:  you  are  not  to  have  the 

whole   alphabet.)      Do  games  of  soli- 
taire appeal  to  you? 

I  want  you  to  think  of  me  as  your  Universal 
Provider  and  to  express  your  needs  without  any 
reserve.  For  what  else  am  I  useful?  Consider 
me,  in  short,  as  a  Callisthenes  whose  motto  is 
"Deeds  not  Words."— Yours,  R.  H. 

P.S. — (h)  Have  you  a  gramophone?  And  if 
not,  does  the  idea  of  a  gramo- 
phone repel  or  attract? 

P.S.  1. — Dearest  Verena,  I  hate  it  that 
you    should    be    ill — you  who  live  normally  a 

[15] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


hundred  minutes  to  the  hour.  But  if  there  is  no 
heritage  of  weakness  you  will  be  all  the  better  for 
the  enforced  rest.  That  I  intend  to  think  and 
believe. 

P.S.  3. — Yours,  again  and  always,       R.  H. 

IV 

From  the  "Herefordshire  Post'* 

We  regret  to  state  that  Miss  Verena  Raby  of 
Old  Place,  Kington,  who  is  so  well  known  as  the 
Lady  Bountiful  of  the  neighbourhood,  has  met 
with  a  serious  accident  through  falling  on  the  ice 
and  sustained  spinal  injuries  which  may  confine 
her  to  her  room  for  several  months.  Every  one 
will  wish  her  a  speedy  recovery. 


Nesta  Rossiter  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  "Uncle"  Richard, — I  got  here  this 
afternoon  and  found  Aunt  Verena  very  still  and 
white  and  pathetic,  but  the  doctor  is  cheerful  and 
a  London  swell,  a  friend  of  his — Sir  Smithfield 
Mark — is   expected    to-morrow.      Mrs.    Carlyon, 

[16] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


who  lives  in  that  big  house  near  the  church,  on 
the  Llandridnod  road,  has  been  kindness  itself. 
I  have  come  prepared  to  stay  for  a  considerable 
time.  Fred  has  promised  not  to  go  away  just 
yet  and  fortunately  we  have  a  very  good  nurse. 
A  little  later  perhaps  Lobbie,  my  second,  will 
come  to  me  here;  it  depends  on  how  quiet  Aunt 
Verena  has  to  be  kept. 

Now  for  the  answers  to  your  questions,  which 
Mrs.  Carlyon  has  handed  over  to  me: — 

(a)  She  can  use  her  hands  but  is  not  per- 

mitted to  do  anything  tiring,  such  as 
writing. 

(b)  She  has  to  lie  too  flat  to  be  able  to  hold 

a  book  with  any  comfort  for  more  than 
a  very  short  while. 

(c)  She  is  not  in  serious  pain. 

(d)  What  she  most   wants   is   letters   from 

her  friends,  and  you,  I  imagine,  in  par- 
ticular. 

(e)  She  has  a  library  subscription,  but  would 

like  to  know  what  books  are  cheerful. 
She  does  not  want  to  lie  awake  think- 
ing about  other  people's  frustrated  lives. 

[17] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


She  is  rather  tired  of  novels  with  the 
Cafe  Royal  in  them. 

(f)  I  have  done  my  best  for  years  to  learn 

to  read  aloud,  for  the  sake  of  the  chil- 
dren, but  most  of  the  sentences  end  in 
a  yawn.  I  wonder  why  it  makes  one  so 
sleepy. 

(g)  This   is   really  most   important.     Aunt 

Verena  is  devoted  to  Solitaire  and  thinks 
that  a  little  later  it  might  help  her. 
But  in  her  horizontal  position  it  is,  of 
course,  impossible  to  use  a  table.  What 
we  have  been  wondering  is  whether  it 
would  be  possible  to  get  an  arrange- 
ment by  which  it  could  be  played  on  a 
more  or  less  vertical  board.  Do  you 
think  this  could  be  managed"?  I  have 
been  thinking  about  it  and  can  sug- 
gest only  long  spikes  and  holes  in  the 
cards  so  that  they  cpuld  be  hung  on. 
Do  you  know  anyone  who  could  carry 
out  such  a  scheme*?  She  is  going  along 
very  satisfactorily  and  is  a  perfect  pa- 
tient. She  tells  me  to  give  you  her 
[.8] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


love  and  thank  you  for  all  your  sug- 
gestions.— Yours  sincerely, 

Nesta  Rossiter 
VI 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dearest  Aunt  Verena, — We  are  so  sorry  to 
hear  about  your  accident,  and  so  glad  that  some 
of  the  reports  were  exaggerated.  Father  says 
that  nothing  would  give  him  such  joy  as  to  go  to 
bed  for  a  year,  and  then  perhaps  he  might  lose  a 
few  of  his  seventeen  permanent  colds;  but  he 
sends  his  love  too.  There  Is  no  news;  the  chief 
is  that  Roy  has  been  demobbed  and  is  wonder- 
ing what  his  future  is  to  be.  His  present  is 
largely  Jazz  and  avoiding  father.  The  lucky 
boy  is  staying  with  some  rich  friends  in  Kensing- 
ton. I  am  glad  that  Nesta  is  with  you.  Mother 
has  given  up  Christian  Science  in  favour  of  what 
father  calls  Unchristian  Seance. 

It's  an  awful  thing  to  say,  but  I  often  regret 
the  loss  of  the  War.  Not  because  I  was  a  profi- 
teer, but  because  I  then  had  something  to  do  and 
some  fun  with  it.     But  now^ — Your  loving 

Hazel 

[19] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


VII 
Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  of  course  I  will  write.  If  I  were 
not  tied  to  London  just  now  by  office  work  I 
should  take  rooms  near  you  and  do  my  best  to 
spoil  you.  But  that  cannot  be.  Instead  I  will 
send  you  a  letter  as  often  as  possible.  In  fact,  I 
wouldn't  mind,  if  it  would  really  give  you  any 
satisfaction,  promising  to  write  every  day.  Nulla 
dies  sine  e  pis  tola — however  short.  Shall  I?  I 
never  made  such  an  undertaking  before  in  my 
life. 

As  to  books — when  I  am  ill  I  am  like  the  man 
who  when  a  new  one  came  out  read  an  old  one — 
Dr.  Johnson  or  Hazlitt  or  Mr.  Birrell — and 
therefore  I  am  a  bad  counsellor.  Were  I  to  have 
a  nice  luxurious  little  illness  at  this  moment  I 
should  take  with  me  to  the  nursing  home  Emma 
and  Mansfield  Park;  but  they  are  men's  books 
far  more  than  women's.  I  should  also  put  into 
practice  a  project  I  have  long  had  in  mind — the 
attempted  re-reading  of  certain  favourites  of  my 
schooldays,    to  see  if  they  will   stand   the   test. 

[20] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


Probably  not.  These  include  Midshipman  Easy^ 
Zarioni^  Kenelm  Chillingly  and,  above  all,  Moby 
Dick;  but  I  doubt  if  any  of  these  are  in  Miss 
Raby's  line.  Nor  is,  I  am  afraid,  my  glorious 
new  friend,  O.  Henry.  In  default  of  a  better  I 
send  by  parcel  post  the  old  6-volume  edition  of 
Fanny  Burney's  Diary. 

Picture  me  hunting  about  for  a  Reader.  Surely 
among  all  the  demobilised  young  women  who  are 
said  to  be  pining  for  a  job  I  can  find  one!  Don't 
be  frightened — she  shall  not  be  too  startlingly 
from  one  of  the  great  tea-drinking  departments  of 
the  Government — but  I  can't  guarantee  that  her 
skirts  will  be  below  her  knees.  There  are  no  long 
skirts  left  in  Lx)ndon  to-day,  and  no  stockings 
that  are  not  silk.  I  am  not  an  observant  person, 
but  I  have  noticed  that;  I  have  noticed  also  that 
the  silk  does  not  always  go  the  whole  way.  But 
perhaps  among  all  your  vast  array  of  relations 
you  know  of  a  nice  girl.  If  so,  say  so  and  I  will 
not  pursue  the  chase,  but  at  the  moment  more 
than  one  agency  is  being  busy  about  it.  "Must 
have  a  pleasant  voice  and  be  able  to  keep  it  up 
for  an  hour  without  one  gape" — that  is  what  I 
tell  them. 

[21] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


I  must  now  stop  or  your  poor  arms  will  be  tired 
with  holding  this  up.  Don't  forget  that  I  want 
to  know  what  Sir  Smithfield  Mark  says.  Apropos 
of  doctors,  I  met  old  Beamish  at  the  club  to-day, 
very  cock-a-hoop  as  he  was  just  off  to  North 
Berwick,  on  his  doctor's  advice,  and  without  Mrs. 
B.  He  said  with  a  wink  that  every  man  should 
have  three  doctors,  carefully  selected,  to  consult 
with  discretion:  one,  when  things  were  slacken- 
ing domestically,  to  assure  his  wife  that  he  must 
be  fed  up — better  and  more  nourishing  food, 
oysters  and  so  forth;  one  when  he  was  bored 
with  town,  to  assure  his  wife  that  he  is  badly 
in  need  of  a  change  and  ought  to  go  off  on  a  little 
holiday  at  once,  alone;  and  one  to  look  after  him 
when  he  is  really  ill.  R.  H. 

VIII 

Richard  Haven  to  Rhoda  Carlyon 

Dear  Mrs.  Carlyon,  we  are  all  very  grateful 
to  you  for  being  such  a  good  Samaritan  to  our 
dear  Verena.  The  word  neighbour  henceforward 
will  have  a  new  meaning  for  me;  but  why  we 
should  naturally  be  amiably  disposed  to  people. 
[22] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


because  they  cultivate  the  normally  objectionable 
practice  of  living  near  or  next  door  to  us  I  never 
understood.  You,  however,  have  behaved  so 
nobly  that  I  shall  now  think  of  neighbours  as 
being  human  too, — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Richard  Haven 

IX 

Septimus  Tribe  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Sister, — We  are  gravely  disturbed  by 
the  news  of  your  accident  and  trust  that  recovery 
will  be  swift  and  sure,  although  injury  to  the 
spine  is  often  slow  in  healing  and  not  infrequently 
leaves  permanent  weakness.  You  are,  however, 
normally  strong,  much  stronger  than  my  poor 
Letitia,  who  seems  to  me  to  become  more  fragile 
every  day.  Strange  that  two  sisters  should  be  so 
different. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  be  informed  if  there  is  any- 
thing that  I  can  do  to  alleviate  your  mind  at  this 
season.  Since  we  have  had  no  details  of  your 
illness  nor  are  acquainted  with  your  medical  man, 
it  is  possible  that  I  may  be  suggesting  a  gravity 
which  the  case  does  not  possess ;  but  from  what  I 

[23] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


know  of  spinal  troubles,  I  think  that  if  you  have 
not  yet  considered  the  drawing-up  of  your  will 
you  ought  to  do  so.  Most  probably  you  have, 
for  you  have  always  been  thoughtful,  but  even 
the  most  complete  will  is  liable  to  second  and 
third  thoughts,  which  necessitate  codicils.  It 
occurs  to  me  that  the  presence  of  a  man  of  affairs, 
such  as  myself,  might  be  of  use  to  you  while  you 
perform  this  delicate  task,  and  it  is,  of  course, 
more  suitable  for  one  who  is  allied  to  you  through 
kin  to  stand  beside  your  bed  than  for  a  stranger. 
I  have  stood  beside  too  many  for  you  to  feel  any 
embarrassment.  I  have  also  acted  as  Executor 
and  Trustee  on  several  occasions ;  in  fact,  few  men 
can  have  had  more  experience  than  I  in  giving 
counsel  as  to  wise  benefactions. 

With  loving  thoughts,  in  which  Letitia  would, 
I  am  sure,  join  me,  were  she  not  out  purchasing 
our  necessarily  frugal  dinner, — I  am,  your  affec- 
tionate brother-in-law,  Septimus  Tribe 


[24] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


X 

Richard  Haven  to  Nesta  Rossiter 

Dear  Nesta,  how  odd  things  are  I  Here  have 
you  been  my  honorary  niece  for  years  and  years, 
and  we  have  hardly  exchanged  a  word,  and  now, 
all  owing  to  a  piece  of  slippery  ice,  I  am  reeling 
out  correspondence.  But  how  wrong  that  it 
should  have  needed  such  a  lamentable  form  of 
provocation ! 

You  must  think  of  me  now  as  in  constant  con- 
sultation with  card-sharpers  and  carpenters,  with 
a  view  to  solving  the  great  Solitaire-board  prob- 
lem. If  it  comes  out,  thousands  of  invalids,  and 
a  few  lazy  folk  into  the  bargain,  will  bless  the 
names  of  Raby  and  Rossiter,  not  altogether,  I 
hope,  forgetting  that  of  Haven;  for  all  of  us  at 
times  have  wished  for  the  possibility  of  playing 
card  games  while  reclining  in  comfort  on  a  sofa. 
There  is  a  thing  called  a  card  index,  the  main- 
taining of  which  seems  to  have  been  the  princi- 
pal task  of  the  female  war-winners  in  the  various 
Government  Departments,  and  it  is  upon  the 
same  principle  (as  you  have  already  suggested) 

[25] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


,that  our  vertical  or  sloping  Solitaire  table  must 
be  made.  Meanwhile  tell  me  if  you  have  one  of 
those  invalid  tables  that  come  from  Bond  Street 
and  can  be  insinuated  into  the  patient's  zone  with 
such  ease.    If  not  I  shall  send  you  one. 

I  ran  into  one  of  your  kith  and  kin,  Horace 
Mun-Brown,  to-day  and  told  him  the  news,  so 
Verena  may  expect  trouble,  I  had  told  him  be- 
fore I  realized  what  a  bloomer  I  was  committing. 
But  that  is  life!  The  always  wise  communicate 
no  news. — Yours,  R.  H. 

P.S. — You,  as  a  parent,  will  like  the  small 
schoolboy's  letter  home  which  one  of  the  evening 
papers  quotes  to-day: — 

My  Dear  Father  and  Mother, — Do  you 
know  that  salt  is  made  of  two  deadly  poisons^ — 
Your  loving  son,  John 

XI 

Antoinette  Rossiter  to  her  Mother 

Dearest  Mummie, — I  hope  you  are  quite 
well.     I  have  a  cold.     Daddy  tells  me  to  tell 

[26] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


you  that  if  you  don't  come  home  soon  he  will 
take  another  lady  in  wholly  wedlock.  So  please 
come  soon  because  we  have  decided  we  couldn't 
endure  her.  I  send  you  a  thousand  kisses. — 
.Your  loving  Tony 

xxxxxxxx 

XII 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  "Uncle"  Richard, — Aunt  Verena  asks 
me  to  te]l  you  that  the  specialist  is  very  hopeful 
that  she  may  be  quite  as  strong  and  active  as 
ever,  but  it  will  be  a  long  business.  Injuries  to 
the  spine  are,  however,  very  dangerous  things, 
and  there  can  be  no  certainty  yet.  Directly  she 
can,  she  is  going  to  write  to  you  with  her  own 
hand.  You  are  to  be  the  first.  Meanwhile  she 
says  that  your  daily  letters  are  a  great  joy,  but 
you  must  not  hesitate  to  break  the  custom  if  it  is 
ever  at  all  troublesome. — Yours  sincerely, 

Nesta 


[27] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


XIII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

[  Telegram  ] 

Three  and  thirty  cheers  for  the  specialist. 

R.  H. 

XIV 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dearest  Aunt  Verena, — I  hope  you  are 
really  better,  or — if  that  is  too  much  to  hope  yet 
— that  you  are  going  on  all  right.  As  soon  as 
the  Doctor  says  so,  I  am  coming  to  peep  at  you. 

We  are  living  in  a  state  of  great  excitement 
because  Mother's  old  friend  Mrs.  Blundry  is  here 
for  a  few  days  and  she  talks  of  nothing  but 
spiritualism.  You  know  she  lost  her  son  Savile 
in  the  War — or,  to  use  her  own  word,  she  "gave" 
him — and  every  night  she  gets  out  the  parapher- 
nalia of  communication  and  has  conversations 
with  him.  I  used  to  think  of  death  with  terror — 
and  indeed  I  do  now,  of  my  own — but  the  late 
Savile  Blundry  is  transforming  us  all  into  frivo- 

[28] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


lous  heartless  creatures!  From  his  mother's  re- 
port of  what  he  says,  the  grave  has  taught  him 
nothing,  and  most  of  his  remarks  are  only  to  the 
effect  that  it's  "jolly  decent  over  there." 

Father  is  furious  about  it  all  and  says  that  the 
duty  of  the  dead  is  to  be  dead:  but  of  course  he 
can't  be  brutal  like  that  to  Mrs.  Blundry.  The 
fact,  however,  remains  that  she  sees  far  more  of 
her  Savile  now  than  she  ever  did  when  he  was 
alive.  Of  course,  if  talking  to  the  boy,  or  think- 
ing she  does  so,  brings  any  comfort,  one  should  be 
glad  of  it — and  there  seem  to  be  lots  of  people 
getting  such  comfort,  or  groping  after  such  com- 
fort, all  over  the  world — but  really,  dead  people 
do  seem  to  have  so  little  to  say.  When  it  comes 
to  that,  so  do  live  people. 

We  have  already  had  one  real  seance  here, 
when  father  was  out,  and  wonderful  results  were 
said  to  be  obtained,  but,  to  my  naughty  sceptical 
mind  they  weren't  of  any  interest  whatever.  After 
a  number  of  false  starts  and  accusations  of  undue 
control,  and  so  forth,  we  got  a  name  spelt  out 
which  with  a  little  lenience  could  be  translated 
into  Cyrus  Bowditch-Kemp  by  one  of  the  women 
present,  who,  when  she  was  a  girl,  had  known  a 

[29] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


man  of  that  name  who  died  in  Rangoon  twenty 
years  ago.  This  was,  of  course,  frightfully 
thrilling.  Then  he  was  asked  if  he  had  a  message 
for  any  member  of  the  company  and  he  said 
"Yes"  and  this  was  the  message:  "Wind  in  the 
daffodils";  and  the  woman  nearly  fainted  when 
she  remembered  that  one  spring  afternoon  when 
Bowditch-Kemp  was  calling,  there  was  a  gale 
which  swayed  the  daffodils  at  the  edge  of  the 
lawn.  That  was  all,  but  it  was  considered  to  be 
marvellous  and  to  prove  that  Mr.  Bowditch- 
Kemp  was  now  the  woman's  "watcher,"  as  they 
are  called. 

I  hope  you  are  not  shocked:  but  you  said  you 
wanted  to  know  all  that  we  were  doing.  People 
take  this  new  spiritualism  so  differently;  and  of 
course,  as  I  said,  if  it  is  a  comfort  one  is  only  too 
glad,  but  it  can  be  a  kind  of  drug  too,  and  there 
is  no  doubt  that  it  has  made  things  very  easy  for 
too  many  charlatans. — Your  loving      Hazel 


[30] 


VERENA  IN   THE   MIDST 


XV 

Evangeline  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — I  was  awfully  sorry  to 
hear  about  your  accident.  The  French  mistress 
has  had  one  too,  she  went  to  London  and  was 
knocked  down  by  a  taxi  and  has  been  in  bed  ever 
since.  We  were  glad  about  her,  but  I  am  sorry 
about  you.  It  will  be  horrid  not  to  see  you  at 
Christmas.  I  am  going  to  prepare  a  great  sur- 
prise to  cheer  you  while  you  are  ill  but  I  mustn't 
tell  you  any  more  about  it  now  as  it  is  a  terrific 
secret.  Miss  Amott  is  reading  Nicholas  Nickleby 
to  us,  it  is  very  nice.  I  like  John  Browdie,  don't 
you*?  But  I  think  the  actors  are  the  best,  Mr. 
Folair  and  Mr.  Lenville  and  the  Infant  Phe- 
nomenon. We  acted  The  Tempest  the  other  day, 
I  was  Ariel.  It  isn't  fair  in  a  charade,  is  it,  to 
divide  a  word  like  "Shadow"  into  "shay"  and 
"dough."  It  ought  to  be  "shad"  and  "owe"  or 
"Oh!"  oughtn't  it?  Do  answer  this,  because  I 
want  to  confound  some  of  the  other  girls.  I  will 
get  the  surprise  ready  as  soon  as  possible,  but 

[31] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


there  are  others  in  it  too  and  we  must  have  time. 
— I  am,  your  affectionate  niece,     Evangeline 

P.S. — Of  course  if  you  are  not  well  enough  to 
write,  you  mustn't  bother  about  shadow.  I  can 
ask  some  one  else. 

XVI 

Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — I  met  Haven  by 
chance  the  other  morning  and  heard  of  your  acci- 
dent. I  am  more  than  sorry,  but  I  think  I  have 
a  means  both  of  helping  you  to  pass  some  of  the 
weary  time  and  also,  if  you  are  so  disposed,  of 
making  good  use  of  some  of  your  superfluous  in- 
come, of  which  I  have  so  often  written  to  you.  It 
is  monstrous,  especially  now,  when  the  world  is 
trying  to  recover  from  the  paralysis  of  the  War, 
that  there  should  be  any  dormant  bank  balances, 
and,  except  for  medical  attendance  and  nursing, 
you  will,  I  imagine,  be  spending  less  than  usual. 

To  be  brief,  I  have  now  perfected  a  piece  of 
household  furniture  which  cannot  fail  to  make  its 
way  if  it  is  set  properly  on  the  market.    This  is  a 

[32] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


combination  clothes-horse,  screen,  step-ladder  and 
holder  for  what  the  French,  who  can  be  so  clever 
with  names,  call  a  serviette  sans  fin;  surely  a  more 
picturesque  phrase  than  "circular  towel."  My 
invention  is  intended  primarily  for  the  kitchen, 
but,  being  on  casters,  it  can  easily  be  moved  else- 
where. I  feel  sure  that  never  before  can  one  and 
the  same  article  have  been  used  for  drying 
clothes,  keeping  out  a  draught,  and  in  hanging 
pictures:  and  small  houses  must  find  it  invalu- 
able. The  carpenter  has  carried  out  my  idea  with 
great  skill  and  the  model  is  here  for  anyone  to 
see.  I  am  enclosing  a  photograph,  with  dimen- 
sions. 

All  that  is  needed  is  a  small  sum  sufficient  to 
manufacture  a  thousand  or  so  and  to  pay  the 
patent-fee.  We  can  then  see  how  it  goes  and 
arrange  for  further  supplies.  I  'expect  it  to  be  a 
little  gold-mine  both  for  the  inventor  and  for  the 
fortunate  capitalist.  I  am  giving  you,  dear  Aunt 
Verena,  the  first  chance.  A  sum  of  £500  should 
be  sufficient  to  start  with. 

So  much  for  the  business  side. 

Now  for  the  amusement.  A  good  catchy  name 
is  needed  for  it,  but  I  have  not  yet  thought  of  one 

[33] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


that  wholly  pleases  me.  The  name  should  cover 
all  its  many  functions  and  yet  be  short  and 
snappy.  I  thought  of  "Steppo,"  but  that  disre- 
gards the  clothes-horse  and  screen;  or  "Klow- 
screne,"  but  that  takes  no  note  of  the  ladder.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  you  might  find  entertainment 
on  your  bed  of  sickness  (which  I  trust  you  are 
soon  to  leave)  in  puzzling  out  something  suitable. 

You  must  not  think  of  me  as  for  one  moment 
wanting  something  for  nothing.  I  should  never 
do  that.  All  I  propose  is  an  alliance  between  my 
restless  brains  and  your  dormant  bank  balance 
which  might  be  profitable  to  both  of  us. 

Again  wishing  you  a  speedy  recovery,  I  am, 
yours  sincerely,  Horace 

P.S. — I  suppose  it  would  hardly  do  to  call  it 
"The  Angel  in  the  House" "?  Not  enough  people 
know  the  phrase,  and  admirers  of  Coventry  Pat- 
more  might  be  shocked. 


t34] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


XVII 
Roy  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — I  am  most  awfully 
sorry  to  hear  from  Hazel  about  your  accident.  I 
hope  it's  only  a  blighty  and  that  5^ou  will  soon  be 
fit  again.  As  I  am  a  great  believer  in  good  news 
as  a  buck-me-up,  I  hasten  to  tell  you  before  any- 
one else  that  I  am  engaged  to  be  married.  Every 
one  has  always  said  that  I  should  be  all  the  better 
for  settling  down,  and  really  with  such  a  pet  as 
Trixie  I  am  sure  they  are  right.  I  have  not 
known  her  very  long — we  met  at  a  dance  at 
Prince's — but  there  are  some  people  that  you  feel 
in  a  minute  or  so  you  have  known  all  your  life, 
and  she  is  one  of  them.  If  you  were  not  so  ill  I 
should  bring  her  to  see  you  at  once. 

She  has  fair  hair,  bobbed,  and  her  father  is  a 
swell  in  the  India  OfRce.  I  have  not  met  either 
him  or  her  mother  yet,  but  Trixie  is  to  let  me 
know  directly  a  favourable  opportunity  occurs 
and  then  I  shall  butt  in.  I  rather  dread  the  inter- 
view, as  Mr.  Parkinson — that's  her  father's  name 
— is  said  to  be  dashed  peppery  and  to  have  set  his 

[35] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


heart  on  her  marrying  coin ;  but  I  daresay  I  shall 
pull  myself  together  and  play  the  game.  Mean- 
while Trixie  wants  to  keep  the  engagement  a 
secret;  and  except  for  two  or  three  pals  you  are 
the  only  person  I  have  told.  I  haven't  even  told 
Hazel. 

I  ought  to  tell  you  that  she  can  drive  a  car  and 
knows  all  about  them,  so  she  ought  to  be  really 
a  helpmate,  as  all  wives  should  be,  don't  you 
think?  She  is  nearly  eighteen  and  as  I  am  nearly 
twenty  it  is  splendid.  I  have  always  believed 
that  husbands  ought  to  be  older  than  their  wives. 
It  gives  them  authority.  We  are  thinking  of  tak- 
ing our  honeymoon  in  a  two-seater  on  which  I 
have  had  my  eye  for  some  time;  but  it  is  rather 
costly.  Everything  costs  such  a  lot  nowadays. 
Trixie  says  she  finds  me  such  a  relief  after  so 
many  soldiers.  You  see,  having  been  in  the 
Army  such  a  short  time,  I  am  almost,  she  says,  a 
civilian;  really  her  first  civilian  friend;  but  of 
course  if  the  War  hadn't  stopped  I  should  still  be 
a  soldier  too. — Your  sincere  nephew,         Roy 

P.S. — I'm    awfully    sorry    about    your   being 
seedy.     There's  nothing  like  keeping  fit  and  I 

[36] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


was  never  so  full  of  beans  myself.    Get  well  soon. 
Cheerio ! 

XVIII 

Evangeline  Barrance  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  Mr.  Haven, — Will  you  please  be  very 
kind  and  write  something  for  a  little  paper  which 
I  am  editing  at  school  for  Aunt  Verena  to  read 
while  she  is  so  ill.  You  are  so  clever.  Some- 
thing funny  if  you  can,  but,  if  not,  something 
readable.  The  paper  is  to  be  called  The  Beguiler; 
or^  The  Invalid's  Friend. — Yours  affectionately, 
Evangeline  Barrance 

XIX 

Horace   Mun-Brown    to   Verena   Raby 

Dear  Aunt, — Just  a  line  to  say  that  I  have 
hit  on  what  I  think  is  a  perfect  name  for  my  in- 
vention, so  do  not  trouble  your  brains  any  more. 
"The  Housewife's  Ally." — Yours  sincerely, 

Horace  Mun-Brown 


[37] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


XX 

Richard  Haven  to  Evangeline  Barrance 

Dear  Evangeline  (what  a  long  name  I),  I 
am  so  busy  in  trying  to  be  a  beguiler  to  your 
Aunt  Verena,  on  my  own  account,  that  I  don't 
think  I  shall  be  able  to  contribute  to  your  maga- 
zine; but  I  wish  it  very  well  and  I  shall  try  to 
collect  something  for  you  from  a  literary  friend 
here  and  there.  Being  funny  is  too  difficult  for 
me  anyway. — Yours  sincerely, 

Richard  Haven 

XXI 

Septimus  Tribe  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Sister, — Letitia  and  I  were  distressed 
by  the  tone  of  Nesta's  reply  to  my  offer  of  a 
friendly  advisory  visit.  It  was  never  in  my  mind 
to  supplant  your  lawyer,  but  merely  to  assist  you 
in  preparing  for  him.  Friendly  as  family  lawyers 
can  become,  one  must  always  remember  that  they 
are  a  race  apart,  members  of  a  secret  society, 
largely  inimical  in  their  attitude  to  amateur  coun- 

[38] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


sellers  outside  their  mystery.     But  on  this  sub- 
ject I  shall  say  no  more. 

Letitia  is,  I  regret  to  state,  in  a  poorer  condition 
of  health  than  usual,  due  not  a  little  to  the  need 
for  certain  luxuries  with  which,  to  my  constant 
regret,  I  am  unable  to  provide  her,  not  the  least 
of  which  is  some  sound  invigorating  wine  such 
as  our  medical  man  recommends.  In  default  of 
champagne,  which  is  light  and  easily  digested,  she 
has  to  take  stout,  which,  poor  girl,  lies  heavily  on 
her  stomach.  But  these  are  not  matters  on  which 
to  discourse  to  one  in  affliction,  and  I  apologise. 
Let  me  repeat  that  if  in  any  way  I  can  be  of  ser- 
vice to  you  in  your  helplessness  I  shall  be  only 
too  ready. — I  remain,  your  affectionate  brother- 
in-law,  Septimus  Tribe 

XXII 

Horace   Mun-Brown   to   Verena   Raby 

Dear  Aunt, — I  am  afraid  x  was  over-san- 
guine about  the  name  for  my  invention.  I  showed 
it  to  a  friend,  a  very  capable  man  at  the  Bar,  and 
to  my  astonishment  he  pronounced  "Ally"  not  as 
if  it  were  the  word  signifying  helper  (as  I  had 

[39] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


intended)  but  as  though  it  were  a  diminutive  of 
Alexander  or  Alfred,  bringing  to  mind,  most  un- 
suitably, the  vulgar  paper  Ally  Eloper.  Such  a 
misconception,  in  a  man  of  his  ability,  would 
mean  that  far  too  many  people  would  make  a 
similar  mistake,  so  we  must  start  again, — I  am, 
yours  sincerely,  Horace  Mun-Brown 

XXIII 

Nesta   Rossiter  to   Richard  Haven 

Dear  "Uncle"  Richard. — The  news  here 
is  good,  I  think,  were  it  not  that  Aunt  Verena  has 
great  difficulty  in  sleeping.  She  worries  a  good 
deal  over  her  inactivity,  and  her  burdensomeness 
(as  she  calls  it)  to  others.  She  does  not  want  to 
take  drugs,  nor  do  the  doctors  recommend  them  if 
they  can  be  avoided.  Our  nurse  is  very  good  and 
attentive,  but  not  much  of  a  companion  in  the 
small  hours.  Have  you  any  suggestions'? — I  am, 
yours  sincerely,  Nesta  Rossiter 


[40] 


VERENA  IN   THE   MIDST 


XXIV 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  I'm  sorry  about  your  sleeping  so 
badly.  All  I  can  do  is  to  pass  on  to  you  my  own 
remedy,  which  is  to  repeat  poetry  to  myself.  It 
is  better  than  counting  sheep  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing. 

"But  suppose  I  don't  know  any  poetry"?" 
Well,  of  course,  you  do;  but  there  is  no  harm 
in  learning  more,  and  especially  so  if,  in  order  not 
to  tire  you  in  the  wrong  way,  it  is  all  very  short, 
never  more  than  eight  lines.  The  epigrammatic 
things  that  are  like  miniatures  in  painting.  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  Here  is  a  quatrain  that 
touches  immediately  on  your  case: — 

Invoking  life,  I  feel  the  surging  tide 
Of  countless  wants  ordained  to  be  denied ; 
Invoking  sleep,  I  feel  the  hastening  stream 
Of  minor  wants  merged  in  a  want  supreme. 

You  see,  I  have  already  begun  to  collect  these 
little  jewels,  and,  difficult  as  it  is  to  find  perfec- 
tion (even  Landor  is  often  disappointing),  I  am 
in  great  hopes  of  getting  together  a  really  beauti- 

[41] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


ful  necklace  of  them,  and  then  perhaps  we  will 
print  them  privately  in  a  little  book  for  the  weary 
and  the  wakeful  and  the  elect.  You  might  even 
learn  Omar:  say,  two  quatrains  a  day.  It's  the 
loveliest  melancholy  stuff  and  can't  do  you  any 
harm,  because  you  have  your  belief  in  the  good- 
ness of  things  all  fixed  and  unshakeable,  and  you 
couldn't  get  at  the  red  wine  if  you  wanted  to. 
If  you  haven't  an  Omar  I  shall  send  you  one. 

Ah,  Love !  could'st  thou  and  I  with  Fate  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 
Would  we  not  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  desire! 

Wouldn't  we  just?  But  then  you  don't  think 
the  scheme  as  sorry  as  I  often  am  forced  to. 

R.  H. 

XXV 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dearest  Aunt  Verena, — I  do  hope  you  are 
getting  stronger.  We  are  all  excited  about  the 
vertical  Solitaire  table  and  I  long  to  see  it.  One 
odd  and  unexpected  effect  of  your  illness  is  to 
keep   Evangeline   quiet    and   busy.     She   comes 

[42] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


home  from  school  now  full  of  importance  and 
spends  hours  with  her  pen.  The  result,  as  I  think 
she  has  told  you,  is  to  be  a  surprise  for  you.  I 
wish  I  could  do  something  to  help  you,  but  can 
suggest  nothing.  Knitting  was  my  only  accom- 
plishment and  I'm  sure  you  are  not  short  of 
woollies.  Having  ordered  the  day's  food,  I  have 
now  nothing  to  do  but  periodically  to  eat  it,  and 
to  go  out  of  my  way  to  be  more  than  amiable  to 
the  maids  for  fear  of  offending  and  losing  them. 
You  have  no  notion — you  with  your  divine  per- 
manent staff — of  the  volcanoes  we  live  on  here 
and  our  constant  terror  of  receiving  notice.  And 
this  family  in  particular,  because  father  makes  no 
effort  to  control  his  language  (but  then  no  one 
does  any  more,  and  if  "damn"  were  a  word  that 
infants  could  lisp  they  would  lisp  it — but  ser- 
vants don't  like  it),  and  mother  will  give  us  the 
results  of  seances,  which  again  servants  don't  like 
or  quite  understand.  Their  idea  of  the  dead  is 
something  to  be  put  tidily  away  in  a  cemetery  and 
visited  on  Sunday  afternoons;  not  talkative  spirits 
full  of  messages. 

The  more  I  go  on  in  this  aimless  way  the  more 
I  want  to  break  loose  and  live  alone  without  meals 

[43] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


and  really  do  something.  I  was  useful  during  the 
War  and  now  I'm  a  machine.  My  only  excite- 
ment— and  a  very  doubtful  one — is  the  refusal 
of  dear  cousin  Horace,  who  proposes  to  me  every 
other  week. — Your  loving  Hazel. 


P.S. — Poor  Fritz  has  had  to  be  gently  brought 
to  his  end.  We  have  buried  him  next  to  Tiger 
and  father  has  had  the  stone  engraved  with  the 
words : — 


HERE    LIES 

FRITZ  THE  DACHSHUND 

WHO 

(although  a  German) 

WAS 

the  truest  friend 
an  english  family 

EVER    HAD 
1919 


[44] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


XXVI 

Louisa  Parrish  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Verena, — I  have  only  just  heard  of 
your  accident  and  cannot  understand  why  you 
did  not  let  me  know  sooner.  But  perhaps,  poor 
thing,  you  can't  write.  I  heard  it  through  the 
Hothams,  who  had  been  told  by  Pauline  Bankes. 
Still  even  if  you  can't  write  yourself  you  must 
have  some  one  there  who  can.  Dictating  is  not  an 
easy  thing,  I  know,  but  even  a  postcard  would 
have  been  better  than  nothing,  and  then  I  would 
have  written  at  once  to  cheer  you  up.  But  if  you 
do  send  a  postcard,  you  will  be  careful,  won't 
you,  not  to  put  anything  very  private  on  it,  as 
they  are  all  read  here.  It  was  how  the  village 
heard  of  poor  Colonel  Onslow's  daughter's  elope- 
ment. No  doubt  you  were  too  ill  to  think  of  all 
your  friends,  and  yet  in  the  night,  when  one  thinks 
of  so  much,  I  wonder  my  name  didn't  occur  to 
you. 

Writing  letters  is  no  hardship  to  me,  as  it  is  to 
so  many  people.  My  brother  John,  for  instance, 
can't  bring  himself  to  put  pen  to  paper  at  all,  and 

[45] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


his  Study  is  always  littered  up  with  unanswered 
things.  It  is  very  odd,  I  always  think,  that  the 
son  of  so  methodical  a  man  as  father  was  should 
be  so  careless,  but  I  expect  it  is  a  throwback  or 
comes  from  mother's  side.  I  am  much  more  like 
father  in  so  many  ways,  as  well  as  having  the 
Parrish  nose  and  the  ears  set  so  far  forward,  while 
John  and  the  others  favour  the  Pegrams. 

You  must  let  me  know  if  there  is  anything  I 
can  do  for  you  besides  writing  rjpw  and  then. 
Of  course,  if  you  were  able  to  knit  it  would  be 
better,  although  there  is  no  one  to  knit  for  now. 
All  the  girls  that  I  see  knitting  are  working  only 
for  themselves — those  jumpers  they  wear  without 
corsets,  so  very  indelicate,  I  think,  especially 
when  the  bust  is  at  all  full.  It  is  all  so  different 
from  the  War,  when  people  were  really  unselfish. 
As  long  as  I  can  remember,  I,  personally,  have 
knitted  for  others ;  not  that  I  want  to  take  credit 
for  it,  but  it  is  nice  to  be  able  to  be  of  service. 
When  I  was  a  child  it  was  mittens  for  the  gar- 
dener and  the  coachman  or  else  those  poor  Deep 
Sea  Fishermen. 

I  suppose  you  have  all  the  books  you  want. 
You  have  always  been  so  well  provided  for,  but 

[46] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


there's  a  little  comforting  bedside  volume  by 
Frances  Ridley  Havergal  which  I  am  sending  in 
case  you  should  want  anything  of  that  sort.  It 
has  always  helped  me,  and  the  other  day,  after 
so  many  years,  I  read  Queechy  again  and  found 
it  quite  exciting,  so  I  am  putting  that  in  too. 
Many  of  the  modern  books  are  so  outre. 

My  rheumatism  has  been  rather  worse  lately, 
but  I  mustn't  tell  you  things  like  that  when  you 
are  so  ill  yourself.  I  should  like  to  know  what 
your  doctor  says  about  you.  There  was  a  poor 
lady  here  who  slipped  and  fell  and  hurt  her  back, 
very  much  in  the  same  way,  I  should  imagine,  and 
she  lived  only  a  few  hours.  And  dear  old  Sir 
Benjamin  Pike,  my  father's  friend  and  fellow 
magistrate,  came  to  his  end  in  the  same  way, 
through  a  banana  skin.  I  am  sure  the  regulations 
about  throwing  banana  and  orange  skins  away  in 
the  streets  should  be  more  strict.  In  my  child- 
hood we  never  saw  bananas  at  all,  and  now  they 
are  everywhere.  How  odd  it  is  that  fashions  in 
fruit  should  change  as  well  as  fashions  in  bodies 
and  in  dress,  although  I  for  one  am  against  so 
much  change  in  dress  and  think  the  advertise- 
ments in  the  weekly  papers  are  dreadful  in  their 

[47] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


incitement  to  women  to  spend  money,  especially 
now  when  the  Prime  Minister  tells  us  we  should 
all  save,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  right.  And  the 
money  people  gave  for  pearls  too,  at  the  Red 
Cross  sale  I  Perfectly  marvellous  where  it  all 
comes  from,  and  how  different  we  all  are !  Those 
millionaires  buying  pearls  for  their  wives,  and  me 
here  quite  happy  with  the  mosaic  brooch  my  fa- 
ther brought  me  from  Venice  and  the  agate  clasp 
which  belonged  to  dear  mother. 

I  must  stop  now  or  I  shall  miss  the  post. — 
Always  your  loving  friend,  Louisa 

XXVII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  how  odd  it  is  that  even  the  sweetest- 
natured  men,  when  asked  for  a  fairy  tale  for  the 
young,  tend  to  satire.  Pure  fancy — comic  inven- 
tion with  no  arriere  pensee — seems  to  be  the  most 
evasive  medium.  That  mathematical  genius, 
W.  K.  Clifford,  could  do  the  genuine  thing  with- 
out one  drop  of  the  gall  of  sophistication,  and  so, 
of  course,  could  Lewis  Carroll,  and  Burne-Jones 
in  his  letters.     But  when  I  asked  my  old  friend, 

[48] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


George  Demain,  for  something  amusing  and  suit- 
able for  a  children's  amateur  magazine,  look  at 
what  he  sent  I  I  enclose  the  original,  which  please 
return.  As  it  is  no  part  of  my  scheme  of  life  to 
teach  cynicism,  I  am  withholding  it  from  the 
fledgling  editors.  I  don't  mind  m.eeting  cynics 
(although  it  is  always  best  that  there  should  be 
but  one  in  any  company)  but  I  don't  intend  con- 
sciously to  make  any. 

One  of  the  extraordinary  things  of  the  mo- 
ment is  how  little  some  men  who  went  through 
the  War  were  changed  by  it  all.  In  fact,  it  comes 
to  this,  that  the  War  could  deal  only  with  what 
a  man  had:  it  could  not  create  brains  or  feelings. 
The  people  who  talk  about  it  as  a  purge,  an 
educator,  as  discipline  and  so  forth,  are  saying 
what  they  thought  it  ought  to  have  been,  rather 
than  what  it  was.  There  are  clerks  in  my  office 
who  enlisted  and  fought  and  even  killed  men,  and 
have  now  returned  to  be  clerks  again,  with  perfect 
resignation,  and  with  no  outward  sign  of  devel- 
opment, except  that  they  do  their  work  with  less 
care. 

I  asked  one  of  them  what  he  thought  of  France 
and   the   French.     He  had  been  right   through 

[49] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


the  War  and  had  come,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  into  relations  with  the  French  under  every 
kind  of  emotional  stress.  He  ought  to  have  had 
numbers  of  stories  to  tell  and  national  distinc- 
tions to  draw.  All  he  said  was — "Funny  how  far 
up  from  the  railway  platform  their  trains  are !" 
I  hope  all  goes  as  well  with  you  as  it  can. 

R.  H. 

[Enclosure] 
MOTIVES 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  King  who  had 
never  done  anything  except  make  laws  and  dravi^ 
his  salary,  and  when  he  was  getting  well  on  in 
years  he  began  to  wonder  if  his  people  really 
loved  him.  He  might  never  have  discovered  the 
answer  had  not  a  neighbouring  country  declared 
war  against  him  and  threatened  to  invade  his 
territory;  for  "Now,"  said  the  old  King,  "we  will 
probe  at  last  into  this  question  of  devotion." 

He  immediately  issued  a  proclamation  that  the 
country  was  in  danger  and  that  all  who  wished 
to  fight  could  do  so  but  there  would  be  no  com- 
pulsion. 

[50] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


So  the  war  began  and  all  the  men  of  the 
country  flocked  to  the  colours  and  there  was  great 
excitement. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  the  army  of  the  old  King 
had  conquered  and  peace  was  proclaimed. 

The  day  that  the  troops  returned  was  a  great 
holiday.  The  streets  were  gay  with  flags  and 
banners,  and  every  one  came  out  to  welcome  the 
victors.  That  night  the  old  King,  dressed  as  a 
plain  citizen,  slipped  through  his  palace  gates  and 
mingled  with  the  crowd.  He  saw  the  illumina- 
tions and  heard  with  emotion  the  joyous  songs 
and  cries  of  exultation. 

Overcome  by  the  noise  and  rejoicing  he  turned 
down  a  quiet  street  and  presently  he  came  on  a 
woman  weeping  in  a  doorway.  He  asked  the 
cause  of  her  grief  and  she  told  him  that  her  hus- 
band had  been  slain  in  battle. 

"Ah,"  said  the  old  King,  "I  am  truly  sorry  to 
hear  that,  but,  after  all,  there  is  a  consolation  in 
knowing  that  he  died  fighting  for  his  King." 

"I  am  not  so  sure,"  replied  the  sorrowing 
widow.  "We  had  a  quarrel  and  he  went  and 
joined  the  army  to  spite  me." 

Farther  on  the  King  met  a  poor  old  man  bowed 

[51] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


with  grief  and  sighing  deeply  as  he  leaned  on  his 
staff. 

"How  is  this,  old  man?"  cried  the  King.  "Why 
do  you  sorrow  when  so  many  are  gay?" 

"Alas,"  groaned  the  other,  "I  have  just  heard 
that  my  son  was  killed  in  this  horrible  war." 

"You  have  cause  for  sorrow,  my  friend,"  said 
the  old  King  sympathetically,  "but  remember  he 
fell  in  a  good  cause.     He  died  for  his  King." 

"Perhaps  he  did,"  replied  the  poor  old  man. 
"But  he  didn't  say  anything  about  that  when  he 
marched  off.  He  didn't  want  to  go,  as  a  matter 
of  fact.  Not  a  bit.  But  every  one  else  was  going 
and  he  was  afraid  of  being  thought  a  coward." 

At  the  next  corner  the  old  King  saw  a  soldier, 
one  of  the  victors.  He  was  lame  and  haggard 
and  worn  and  was  leaning  against  a  wall  to  rest. 

"Ah  I"  cried  the  old  King.  "You  have  been 
wounded,  my  young  hero?" 

The  soldier  nodded  and  looked  bored. 

"Never  mind,  my  lad,"  said  the  old  King,  pat- 
ting him  on  the  shoulder.  "We  are  all  proud  of 
you — and  remember,  you  risked  your  life  in 
honour  of  your  King!" 

The  soldier  turned  his  tired  eyes  on  him  and  a 

[52] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


Stiff  smile  made  his  mouth  croo}ced.  "I  suppose 
that  was  it,"  he  said  wearily.  "I  had  thought 
that  I  joined  up  to  see  a  bit  of  life  and  have  the 
girls  look  at  me,  but  possibly  you  are  right.  I 
expect  it  was  the  King's  honour  I  was  thinking 
of." 

So  the  King  returned  thoughtfully  to  his 
palace,  and  as  he  entered  the  great  hall  the 
musicians  began  playing  "God  keep  the  King." 
Then  all  the  courtiers  who  were  to  receive  their 
share  of  the  indemnity  claimed  from  the  defeated 
enemy,  and  all  the  commanders  who  were  to  re- 
ceive titles  and  honours  and  large  estates,  cried 
out  with  one  voice  "God  keep  the  King  I"  so  that 
the  people  out  in  the  streets  heard  it  and  joined 
m  the  shout  as  if  they  meant  it. 

And  then  the  old  King  went  to  bed. 

XXVIIT 

Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Aunt, — I  am  surprised  to  hear  from 
Nesta  Rossiter  that  my  invention  does  not  strike 
you  more  favourably.  I  felt  sure  that  you  would 
like  to  invest  a  little  in  it  and  at  the  same  time 

[53] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


encourage  me.  But  at  the  moment  I  am  so  busy 
with  a  bigger  and  vastly  more  attractive  project 
that  I  am  not  so  disappointed  as  I  might  have 
been.  This  new  project  is  the  kind  of  thing 
which  I  am  sure  will  interest  you  too,  for  it  in- 
volves the  pleasure  of  a  vast  number  of  people. 
Briefly,  I  want  to  open  a  Picture  Palace  in  the 
heart  of  the  City.  As  you  probably  know,  the 
part  of  London  which  is  called  the  City  is  given 
up  exclusively  to  business  and  eating-houses.  But 
there  are  thousands — almost  millions — of  men 
and  youths  and  girls  who  would  rather  eat  their 
lunch  in  a  Picture  Palace  than  in  a  restaurant, 
and  see  at  the  same  time  a  drama  which  might 
entertain,  instruct,  amuse,  or  quicken  their  emo- 
tions. This  means  crowded  houses  from  say 
12.15  to  2.30,  the  audience  constantly  changing 
as  their  time  was  up.  Then  there  are  also  the 
employers — the  stock-brokers  and  merchants — 
who  might  like  to  break  the  monotony  of  routine 
by  seeing  the  pictures  for  an  hour  at  any  time, 
and  then  there  are  also  errand  boys  who  ought  to 
be  elsewhere.  And  we  can  add  to  these  the 
number  of  strangers  calling  in  the  City  who  have 
nothing  to  do  when  their  business  is  done.     I 

[54] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


think  you  will  agree  with  me  that  this  is  a  really 
good  scheme. 

Land  is  of  course  expensive,  but  I  am  writing 
to  three  or  four  of  the  most  suitably  situated 
churches  suggesting  the  possibility  of  acquiring 
their  sites  and  rebuilding  them  where  they  are 
more  needed.  The  proposal  may  sound  very 
revolutionary  to  you,  but  my  experience  is  that 
the  more  revolutionary  a  thing  is  the  more  likely 
it  is  to  happen.  Besides,  it  is  not  so  revolutionary 
as  it  appears,  for  these  churches  are  practically 
obsolete  and  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  the 
vicars  would  welcome  a  change. 

I  hope  you  are  steadily  improving.  As  a  good 
name  for  the  City  Man's  Cinema  will  be  an 
advantage,  perhaps  you  would  like  to  be  thinking 
of  one. — Yours  sincerely, 

Horace  Mun-Brown. 

XXIX 

Richard  Haven  to  Yerena  Raby 

Dear  Verena,  I  am  finding,  to  my  horror, 
that  the  poets  when  at  their  briefest  are  usually 
concerned   with   mortality:    and   not  necessarily 

[55] 


Vr.RENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


because  the  space  on  a  tombstone  is  restricted  and 
they  are  writing  for  the  stone-cutter,  although 
that  may  have  been  an  influence,  but  from  choice. 
Yet  as  it  is  my  belief  that  we  ought  to  familiarize 
ourselves  with  the  idea  of  death  (and  indeed  the 
War  forced  us  overmuch  to  do  so)  you  mustn't 
mind  an  epitaph  or  two  now  and  then,  particu- 
larly when  they  are  beautiful.  Or  shall  we  get 
them  all  over  at  once — and  illustrate  my  discov- 
ery too?  The  most  famous  of  all,  the  epitaph 
on  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke,  every  one 
knows : — 

Underneath  this  sable  Hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse: 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother: 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Fair,  and  Learn'd,  and  Good  as  she. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

But  I  like  hardly  less  the  elegy  on  Elizabeth  L.  H. 
It  is  longer — longer  indeed  than  the  eight-line 
limit  that  we  have  set  ourselves — but  I  have  cut 
off  the  end,  which  is  inferior: — 

Wouldst  thou  hear  what  Man  can  say 
In  a  little?     Reader,  stay. 
Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  Beauty  as  could  die: 

[56] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


Which  in  life  did  harbour  give 
To  more  Virtue  than  doth  live. 
If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 
Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

Then  there  is  Herrick's  "Upon  a  Child  that  Died" 
— another  inspiration: — 

Here  she  lies,  a  pretty  bud, 
Lately  made  of  flesh  and  blood : 
Who  as  soon  fell  fast  asleep 
As  her  little  eyes  did  peep. 
Give  her  strewings  but  not  stir 
The  earth  that  lightly  covers  her. 

With  these,  which  are  Tudor  or  early  Stuart,  I 
would  associate  the  Scotch  epitaph  on  Miss 
Lewars : — 

Say,  sages,  what's  the  charm  on  earth 

Can  turn  Death's  dart  aside? 
It  is  not  purity  and  worth, 

Else  Jessie  had  not  died. 

And  Stevenson's  best  known  poem  is  an  epitaph 
too : —  , 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie: 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 
This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea^ 

And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

[57] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


But  enough  of  mortality!  Let  me  tell  you  a 
little  thing  that  happened  yesterday.  An  Italian 
I  used  to  know,  a  clerk,  who  has  been  in  England 
for  three  or  four  years,  came  in  to  say  goodbye. 
He  is  going  home. 

"You'll  be  glad  to  be  seeing  your  wife  again 
after  all  this  long  while,"  I  said. 

He  pondered.  "My  wife,  I  don't  know,"  he 
replied  at  last:  "but  my  leetler  boy,  Oh,  yais!'* 
— Good  night,  my  dear.  R.  H. 

XXX 

Septimus  Tribe  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Sister, — I  hasten  to  thank  you  for 
the  timely  case  of  champagne  which  you  have 
sent  for  Letitia.  It  will,  I  am  sure,  revive  her, 
even  though  the  vintage  is  a  little  immature.  I 
consider  1911  to  be  still  too  young,  which  reminds 
me  that  it  is  in  the  correction  of  errors  such  as 
this,  trifling  but  easily  evitable,  that  I  could  be 
of  so  much  use  to  you  on  the  kind  of  periodical 
supervising  visit  to  your  establishment  (now  ne- 
cessarily neglected  through  your  most  regrettable 
accident)    which   I  have   before   suggested,    and 

[58] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


which,  even  at  great  personal  inconvenience,  I 
am  still  ready  at  any  time  to  pay.  At  the  present 
moment,  however,  it  seems  to  me  that  a  visit  from 
Letitia  would  be  even  more  desirable,  for  when 
one  is  sick  and  surrounded  by  comparative 
strangers,  who  should  be  a  more  welcome  guest 
than  a  sister?  And  it  is  long  since  you  two  have 
met.  Apart  from  the  pleasure  of  reunion,  the 
little  change  would  do  Letitia  good.  Save  for 
myself,  who  am  not,  I  am  aware,  too  vivacious  a 
companion,  the  poor  dear  sees  almost  no  one. 
With  a  slightly  augmented  income  she  could  take 
a  place  in  society  here  far  more  appropriate  to 
her  birth;  but  when  one  has  not  the  means  to 
return  hospitality  one  is  a  little  sensitive  about 
accepting  it.  Awaiting  your  reply,  I  am,  your 
affectionate  brother-in-law,     Septimus  Tribe 


XXXI 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

My  Dear  Richard, — This  is  my  first  letter 
in  my  own  hand  and  it  must  be  short.  I  am 
very  grateful  to  you.    Would  not  that  be  a  nice 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


epitaph — "He  never  disappointed'"?    Well,  it  is 
true  of  you. 

Your  idea  of  the  short  poems  is  perfect  and  I 
have  already  learned  some. 

Nesta  is  excellent  company,  but  I  fear  she  is 
giving  me  more  time  than  it  is  fair  to  take. 
Every  now  and  then,  when  she  is  apparently  look- 
ing at  me,  I  can  see  that  her  glance  is  really  fixed 
on  her  children,  many  miles  off.  The  far-away 
nursery  look.  ^ 

It  is  almost  worth  being  ill  to  discover  how 
kind  people  can  be.  If  it  is  true  (and  of  course  it 
is)  that  to  give  pleasure  to  others  is  the  greatest 
happiness,  then  I  can  comfort  myself,  as  I  lie  here 
apparently  useless,  that  I  have  my  uses  after  all, 
since  I  am  the  cause  of  that  happiness  in  so  many 
of  my  friends. — Yours,  V. 

XXXII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Dearest  Verena,  your  testimonial  gave  me 
extraordinary  pleasure,  and  I  wish  it  was  true. 

I  don't  say,  in  spite  of  your  charming  piece  of 
altruistic  reasoning,  that  you  are  lucky  to  be  in 

[60] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


bed,  but  to  have  to  remain  in  a  remote  rural  spot 
while  England  is  getting  herself  into  order  again 
is  not  a  bad  thing.  For  it  is  a  slow  and  rather 
unlovely  process.  Just  at  the  moment  War  seems, 
as  one  remembers  it  (and  of  course  I  speak  only 
of  England,  not  of  the  Front),  a  more  desirable 
condition  than  Peace.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the 
country  is  a  fit  place  for  Profiteeroes  to  live  in. 

I  felt  sure  that  you  knew  Clifford's  excellent 
nonsense  for  the  young.  As  you  don't  know  it, 
you  shall ;  but  not  yet  I    A  surprise  is  brewing. 

With  the  steady  assistance  of  my  invaluable 
Miss  Faith  and  her  little  Corona  (which  is  not, 
alas  I  a  cigar,  but  a  typewriter)  I  have  amassed 
already  a  collection  of  brief  poems  such  as  may 
gently  occupy  your  thoughts  in  the  wakeful  ses- 
sions of  the  night.  These  I  shall  dole  out  to  you, 
one  by  one,  for  you  to  take  or  leave  as  you  feel 
"dispoged."  I  have  not  gone  beyond  my  own 
shelves,  but  if  ever  I  find  myself  with  the  run  of 
somebody  else's  no  doubt  I  shall  find  many  more, 
probably  equally  good  or  even  better.  We  might 
call  it  the  Tabloid  Treasury  when  it  is  ready  ^ 

Having  sent  you  the  other  day  all  those  elegiac 
efforts,  I  am  now  copying  out  three  or  four  short 

[61] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


poems  where  the  poets  take  stock  and  prepare  to 
put  up  the  shutters,  and  here  again  the  quality  is 
high.  The  most  famous  example  is,  of  course, 
Landor's : 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife ; 

Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life ; 

It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

But  Landor  had  a  predecessor  who  said  much  the 
same  in  a  homelier  manner : — 

My  muse  and  I,  ere  youth  and  spirits  fled, 
Sat  up  together  many  a  night,  no  doubt: 

But  now  I've  sent  the  poor  old  lass  to  bed, 
Simply  because  my  fire  is  going  out. 

Stevenson  must  have  had  Landor's  lines  in  mind 
when  he  made  this  summary  of  his  own  career : — 

I  have  trod  the  upward  and  the  downward  slope; 

I  have  endured  and  done  in  days  before ; 
I  have  longed  for  all,  and  bid  farewell  to  hope ; 

And  I  have  lived  and  loved,  and  closed  the  door. 

A  final  example,  from  the  French  of  the  Abbe 

Regnier : — 

Gaily  I  lived  as  ease  and  nature  taught. 
And  spent  my  little  life  without  a  thought. 
And  am  amazed  that  Death,  that  tyrant  grim. 
Should  think  of  me,  who  never  thought  of  him. 

Don't  be  afraid;  in  future  I  shall  send  you  only 
one  poem  at  a  time.  R.  H. 

[62] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


XXXIII 

Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt, — If  I  have  from  time  to  time 
bothered  you  with  my  financial  schemes  I  am  very 
sorry.  But  I  have  an  active  brain,  and  too  few 
briefs.  Also  I  want  to  be  in  a  sound  financial 
position,  and,  under  more  favourable  circum- 
stances, most  of  my  projects  would,  I  am  sure, 
succeed.  But  you  are  the  only  capitalist  that  I 
know,  and  just  at  the  moment  you  are,  I  now 
realize,  not  in  a  position  to  take  any  deep  interest 
in  monetary  ventures.  I  ought  to  have  thought  of 
this  before,  and  I  apologise. 

I  write  to  you  to-day  for  a  very  different  pur- 
pose and  that  is,  to  enlist  not  your  bank  balance 
but  your  sympathy  and,  I  hope,  active  help.  In 
a  nutshell,  I  want  to  marry  Hazel.  I  have  laid 
my  case  before  her  more  than  once,  but  she  refuses 
to  take  me  seriously.  I  am  aware  that  I  am  not 
so  superficially  gay  and  insouciant  as  the  majority 
of  the  young  men  of  to-day;  I  know  only  too  well 
that  I  cannot  jazz  and  that  I  prefer  dances  where 
an  intervening  atmospheric  space  divides  the  part- 

[63] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


ners.  But,  though  I  may  be  old-fashioned,  surely 
I  have  compensating  qualities  of  value  in  married 
life.  What  I  feel  is  that  if  only  Hazel  could  be 
persuaded  that  I  am  in  deadly  earnest,  and  that 
marriage  is  not  one  of — what  she  calls — ^my 
"wild-cat  schemes,"  she  would  begin  to  look  upon 
me  with  a  new  eye.  I  am  very  human  au  fond^ 
dear  Aunt,  and,  in  my  own  way,  I  adore  Hazel. 
Would  you  not  try  to  persuade  her  to  be  more 
kind  and  understanding? — I  am,  your  affection-t 
ate  nephew,  Horace  Mun-Brown 

V.?>. — On  reading  this  letter  through,  I  find 
that  I  have  made  what  looks  rather  like  a  pun — 
that  passage  about  Hazel  and  a  nutshell.  I  assure 
you,  my  dear  Aunt,  it  was  unintentional.  I 
should  never  joke  about  love. 

XXXIV 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  I  have  found  you  a  Reader,  but  I 
hate  to  part  with  her.  It  would  not,  however, 
do  for  anyone  so  young  and  comely  to  sit  at  the 
bedside  of  a  hale  man  of  my  years,  and  so  you 

[64] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


shall  have  her.  But  O  her  voice  I  Irish,  and 
south-west  Irish  at  that.  In  point  of  fact,  Kerry, 
with  hints  of  the  Gulf  Stream  in  it,  all  warm  and 
caressing. 

Miss  Clemency  Power — that  is  her  pretty  name 
— is  not,  I  take  it,  in  any  kind  of  need,  but  she 
worked  all  through  the  War  and  wants  to  con- 
tinue to  be  independent.  And  quite  right  too,  say 
I.  And  Robbie  Burns  said  it  before  me,  in  one 
of  his  English  efforts : — 

the  glorious  privilege 
of  being  independent, 

he  called  it. 

Miss  Power  is  going  to  you  on  Thursday  on  a 
month's  probation,  and  she  is  my  gift  to  you, 
remember:  I  have  arranged  it  all.  It  is  very 
Sultanic  to  be  distributing  young  women  like 
this,  and  you  must  be  properly  grateful.  I  was 
never  Sultanic  before. 

Here's  a  nice  thing  my  sister  Violet's  char- 
woman said  yesterday.  Violet  seems  to  have  been 
looking  rather  more  wistful  than  usual,  but  for 
no  particular  reason.  The  charwoman,  however, 
noticed  it  and  commented  upon  it. 

"You  look  very  sad  this  morning,"  she  said. 

[65] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


"But  then,"   she  added,   "ladies  generally  do." 

"Why  is  that*?"  Violet  asked. 

"They  have  such  difficult  lives,"  she  said.  "It's 
their  husbands,  I  think." 

"But  you  have  a  husband." 

"Yes,  but  we  don't  notice  our  husbands  as 
much  as  you  do.  They  come  in  and  they're  cross 
and  they  swear,  and  we  let  them.  We've  got 
our  work  to  get  on  with.  But  with  ladies  it's 
different;  they  take  notice." 

Your  daily  poem : — 

He  who  bends  to  himself  a  joy 
Does  the  winged  life  destroy; 
But  he  who  kisses  the  joy  as  it  flies 
Lives  in  eternity's  sunrise. 

If  you  trap  the  moment  before  it's  ripe 
The  tears  of  repentance  you'll  certainly  wipe; 
But  if  once  you  let  the  ripe  moment  go, 
You  can  never  wipe  off  the  tears  of  woe. 

A  lot  of  wisdom  there,  but  for  most  of  us,  who 
are  so  far  from  being  children,  rather  a  counsel  of 
perfection. — Good  night.  R.  H. 

P.S. — ^A  travelling  friend  tells  me  that  outside 
the  gate  of  the  Misericordia,  in  Osaka,  Japan,  is 
this  notice,  the  meaning  of  which  is  clear  after  a 
[661 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


moment's  examination :  "The  sisters  of  the  Miser- 
icordia  harbour  every  kind  of  disease  and  have 
no  respect  for  religion." 

XXXV 

Clemency  Power  to  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Power 

Dearest  Mother, — I  have  got  a  job  at  last — 
'^he  least  like  a  War  job  that  you  could  imagine. 
I  have  been  engaged  to  read  for  an  hour  or  so 
every  day  to  a  Miss  Raby,  a  lady  who  owing  to 
an  accident  has  to  lie  still  for  months  and  months. 
After  all  my  adventures  in  France  this  is  a  great 
change. 

Miss  Raby  lives  near  Kington  in  Hereford- 
shire, a  long  way  from  London  and  indeed  a  long 
way  from  anywhere,  but  it  is  fine  country  and 
there  are  splendid  hills  to  walk  on,  Hargest 
Ridge  in  particular,  where  the  air  is  the  most 
bracing  I  ever  knew,  and  you  look  over  to  the 
Welsh  mountains.  She  has  an  old  spacious  house 
in  its  own  grounds,  but  I  am  lodging  with  one 
of  the  villagers;  which  I  greatly  prefer.  Miss 
Raby  has  a  nurse,  and  one  of  her  nieces,  a  Mrs. 

[67] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


Rossiter,  who  is  charming,  is  with  her.  I  am  a 
sort  of  extra  help  and  am  gradually  being  allowed 
to  do  more  and  more  and  now  have  had  the  pick- 
ing of  the  flowers  entrusted  to  me. 

Miss  Raby  herself  is  the  sweetest  creature,  a 
kind  of  ideal  aunt.  She  is  somewhere  in  the 
forties,  I  suppose,  and  had  a  very  full  life,  in  a 
quiet  way,  before  she  was  ill,  and  she  is  very 
brave  in  bearing  her  inactivity,  which  must  be 
terribly  irksome  at  times  and  especially  in  very 
fine  weather.  I  am  here  nominally  to  read,  but 
we  talk  most  of  the  time,  and  she  is  never  tired 
of  hearing  about  the  War  and  all  my  experiences. 
She  knows  the  part  of  the  garden  that  every  flower 
comes  from,  and  I  think  her  greatest  joy  every 
day  is  her  interview  with  the  gardener. 

One  thing  I  have  discovered  is  how  very  few 
books  bear  reading  aloud.  The  authors  don't 
think  of  that  when  they  are  writing  and  so  the 
words  are  wrongly  placed.  Another  thing  Is  that 
books  that  are  silly  anyway  are  heaps  sillier  when 
read  aloud. 

I  ought  to  say  that  although  I  am  in  Miss 
Raby's  service  (don't  wince)  she  is  not  my  em- 
ployer— I  was  engaged  by  a  Mr.  Haven,  her  old- 
[68] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


est  friend,  who  has  presented  me  to  her! — Your 
loving  C. 

XXXVI 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

Dearest  Richard, — I  like  the  woman  thou 
gavest  me  very  much  and  rejoice  in  her  brogue, 
and  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  always.  Tell  me 
more  about  the  state  of  things.  I  can  bear  it. — 
Yours,  V. 

XXXVII 

Verena  Raby  to  Hazel  Barrance 

Dearest  Hazel, — I  have  had  a  rather  pa- 
thetic letter  from  poor  Horace,  who,  after  long 
wooing  you  in  vain,  comes  to  me  (I  hope  this 
isn't  betraying  his  confidence:  I  don't  think  it  is 
really)  as  a  new  legal  Miles  Standish.  Young 
men  at  the  Bar  are  not  usually  so  ready  to  seek 
other  mouthpieces,  are  they?  Not  those,  at  any 
rate,  next  to  whom  I  used  to  sit  at  dinner  parties 
in  the  days  when  I  was  well  and  now  and  then 
came  to  London. 

[69] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


Of  course,  my  dear  child,  I  am  not  going  to 
interfere.  To  be  quite  candid,  I  don't  want  you 
to  marry  Horace.  I  think  you  would  condemn 
yourself  to  a  very  stuffy  kind  of  existence  if  you 
did,  and  I  am  against  first-cousins  marrying  in 
any  case.  But  his  appeal  gives  me  an  opportunity 
of  saying  what  I  have  more  than  once  wished,  and* 
that  is  that  you  would  revise  your  general  atti- 
tude to  marriage.  Again  and  again  in  your  let- 
ters to  me  I  have  detected  a  bitterness  about  it, 
the  suggestion  that  because  some  couples  have 
fallen  out,  all  must  sooner  or  later  do  so.  This 
isn't  true.  But  even  if  it  were,  it  ought  not  to 
deter  us,  for  all  of  us  must  live  our  own  lives,  and 
make  our  own  experiments,  and  all  of  us  ought 
to  believe  that  we  are  the  great  splendid  tri- 
umphant exceptions!  It  is  that  belief — I  might 
almost  call  it  religion— which  I  miss  in  you  and 
which  seems  to  be  now  so  generally  lacking.  Put 
on  low  grounds  it  might  be  called  the  gambling 
spirit,  but  it  is  a  form  of  gambling  in  which  there 
is  no  harm,  but  rather  virtue.  I  often  wish  that 
I  had  had  more  of  it,  but  I  was  unfortunate  in  hav- 
ing my  affections  so  enchained  by  one  who  too  lit- 
tle knew  his  mind,  nor  sufficiently  valued  his  cap- 

[701 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


tive,   that  I   was  never  free   to  consider  offers. 

Marriage  may  always  be  a  lottery  and  often 
turn  out  disastrously,  and  even  more  often  be  a 
dreary  curtailment  of  two  persons'  liberty,  but  it 
is  a  natural  proceeding  and,  unless  one  utterly 
denies  any  purpose  in  life,  a  necessary  one;  and 
I  am  all  in  favour  of  young  people  believing  in  it. 
I  wish  that  you  were  braver  and  healthier  about 
it,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  become  Mrs.  Horace 
Mun-Brown,  and  I  am  telling  him  so. 

This  is  the  longest  letter  I  have  written  since 
I  took  to  my  bed;  indeed  I  believe  it  is  the  long- 
est I  ever  wrote. — Your  loving  Aunt  V. 

XXXVIII 

Septimus  Tribe  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Sister, — I  was  grieved  to  learn 
from  a  third  party  that  you  are  no  better;  indeed 
rather  worse.  Letitia  and  I  were  hoping  that 
every  day  showed  improvement.  In  the  possi- 
bility that  one  deterrent  cause  may  be  too  much 
thought,  it  has  occurred  to  us  that  the  presence 
in  the  house,  to  be  called  upon  whenever  needed, 
of  a  soothing  voice,  might  be  a  great  solace  and 

[71] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


aid.  Such  a  voice  transmitting  the  words  of  the 
poets,  the  philosophers  or  even  the  romancers, 
could  not  but  distract  the  mind  of  the  listener 
from  her  own  anxieties  and  gradually  induce  re- 
pose. Letitia,  to  whom  I  have  been  reading  for 
some  years,  will  tell  you — with  more  propriety 
than  I  can — how  melodious  and  sonorous  an  organ 
is  mine.  You  have  but  to  say  the  word  and  it  is 
at  your  service. — I  am,  your  affectionate  brother- 
in-law,  Septimus  Tribe 

XXXIX 

Antoinette  Rossiter  to  her  Mother 

Dearest  Mummy, — When  you  come  home 
you  will  find  another  baby  here,  only  it  isn't  a 
real  baby,  it's  a  puppy.  A  spaniel.  Mr.  Hawkes 
gave  it  to  us  and  he  says  we  are  to  own  it  to- 
gether so  that  each  of  us  has  a  bit.  He  says  I 
am  to  have  its  stomach  and  mouth,  which  means 
I  have  got  to  feed  it,  and  Cyril  is  to  have  its  front 
legs  and  ears,  and  Lobbie  its  hind  legs  and  tail, 
and  its  tongue  is  to  belong  to  us  all.  I  have  told 
Cyril  that  you  and  Daddy  ought  to  have  an  ear 
each  but  he  won't  give  them  up.    The  ears  of  a 

[72] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


spaniel  are  the  nicest  part,  next  to  the  lips.  It 
is  a  girl  and  Mr.  Hawkes  sa5^s  that  this  means 
that  when  it  grows  up  it  will  be  fondest  of  Cyril. 
We  have  named  it  Tcpsy  because  it  is  a  girl  and 
black.  Do  com.e  home  soon  and  see  it. — Your 
everlastingly  loving  Tony. 

X   X    X    X    X    X 
X    X    X   X 

XL 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Septimus  Tribe 

Dear  Uncle  Septimus, — ^Aunt  Verena  asks 
me  to  thank  you  for  your  kind  offer,  but  to  say 
that  a  trained  reader  has  already  been  secured. 
With  love  to  Aunt  Letitia, — I  am,  yours  sin- 
cerely, Nesta  Rossiter 

XLI 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Verena  R.aby 

Dear  Aunt, — You  were  the  kindest  thing  to 
write  to  me  like  that.  Such  a  long  letter  too! 
I  hope  you  v/eren't  too  tired  after  it.  But,  alas! 
the  pity  is  it  has  not  converted  me.    Marriage  for 

[73] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


every  one  else  if  you  like,  but  not  for  me.  I  have 
seen  too  much  of  it,  nor  do  I  seem  to  want  any  of 
the  things  it  gives  except  escape  from  home.  But 
it  would  be  escaping  only  to  another  form  of 
bondage.  Every  one  is  not  made  for  domesticity 
and  I  am  sure  I  am  not.  I  hate  everything  to  do 
with  the  preparation  of  meals.  I  even  rather  hate 
meals  themselves  and  would  much  prefer  to  eat 
only  when  I  felt  hungry,  a  little  at  a  lime  and 
fairly  often  and  alone.  The  idea  of  munching  for 
evermore  punctually  and  periodically  opposite  the 
same  man  both  repels  and  infuriates  me.  I  won- 
der if  you  can  understand  this.  The  thought  of 
Horace  under  these  conditions  is  too  revolting. 

Since  I  wrote  to  you  Horace  has  actually  been 
to  father,  behind  my  back ;  but  father  is  much  too 
pleased  with  my  likeness  to  himself  to  be  un- 
sporting, and  Horace  was  sent  away  with  the 
warning  that  he  hadn't  an  earthly — but  if  he 
cared  to  persist  he  must  come  to  me  direct  and  to 
no  one  else.  He  would  have  gone  to  mother  for 
a  cert  if  she  had  not  been  so  wholly  occupied  with 
the  affairs  of  the  next  world. 

Father  was  really  funny  about  it.  "What  does 
Horace  want  to  marry  for,  anyway'?"  he  said: 

[74] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


"he  knows  how  to  speak  FrePxch" — this  referring 
to  his  old  theory  that  what  men  most  want  in 
wives  is  a  gift  of  tongues  when  travelling  abroad. 

But  apart  from  not  wanting  to  marry,  marriage 
frightens  me.  It  means  losing  the  fine  edge  of 
courtesy  and  kindness  and  tenderness.  I  see  so 
many  married  people — girls  I  knew  when  they 
were  engaged — one  or  two  to  whom  I  was  brides- 
maid— and  they  are  all  so  coarsened  by  it  and 
take  things  so  for  granted.  I  don't  think  any- 
thing is  sadder  than  the  way  in  which  little  pretty 
indulged  sillinesses  when  a  girl  is  engaged,  become 
detestable  in  her  husband's  eyes  after  they  are 
married.     Losing  umbrellas,  for  example. 

That's  the  end  of  my  grumbling  about  mar- 
riage. This  correspondence,  as  the  editors  say, 
must  now  cease,  and  henceforth  I  will  write  only 
when  I  have  something  cheerful  and  amusing  to 
tell  you.  I  have  been  selfishly  using  you  far  too 
long. — Your  loving  Hazel 


[75] 


VERENA  IN   THE   MIDST 


XLII 
Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  I  am  delighted  to  hear  about  my 
Irish  girl.  Some  day  I  should  like  to  be  ill  my- 
self— nicely,  languidly  ill,  without  pain — ^just  for 
the  pleasure  of  having  her  read  to  me. 

I  hope  you  aren't  letting  the  papers  prey  on 
your  mind.  Far  better  not  read  them,  or,  rather, 
not  hear  them  read ;  but  I  expect  that  is  to  suggest 
too  much.  After  a  great  war  there  must  always 
be  a  period  of  ferment  and  unrest,  and  that  is 
what  we  are  undergoing  now.  I  don't  in  the  least 
despair  of  cosmos  emerging,  but  nothing  will  ever 
be  the  same  again  and  it  will  be  a  very  expensive 
chaos  for  years  to  come. 

What  chiefly  worries  me  is  the  impaired  stand- 
ard of  efficiency,  the  scamping,  the  cheating  and 
the  general  cynicism.  I  seem  to  discern  a  uni- 
versal decrease  of  pride.  The  best,  the  genuine, 
has  gone,  and  substitutes  reign.  Tradespeople  no 
longer  keep  their  word  and  are  impenitent  when 
taxed  with  it.  A  certain  amount  of  dishonesty 
must,  I  suppose,  be  bred  of  a  war.    Officers,  for 

[76] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


example,  had  to  be  fed  and  couldn't  be  expected 
to  inquire  too  closely  of  their  batmen  where  the 
chickens  came  from,  and  no  doubt  a  good  deal  of 
this  bivouacking  morality  persists.  But  I  wish  it 
hadn't  affected  life  so  generally.  I  rather  fancy 
that  what  this  old  England  of  ours  is  most  in 
^need  of  is  a  gentleman  at  the  helm.  A  nobleman 
would  not  be  bad,  but  a  gentleman  would  be  bet- 
ter. No  harm  if  he  were  rich  and  could  win  the 
Derby.  But  where  to  find  him*?  He  is  a  gift  of 
the  gods,  to  be  proffered  or  withheld  according  to 
their  whim  or  their  interest  in  old  England.  If 
they  are  tired  of  us  (as  now  and  then  one  can 
almost  fear),  then  we  may  never  get  him. — 
Yours,  R.  H. 

And  here  is  to-day's  poem,  a  very  brief  one  but 
a  very  striking  one  too: — ' 

Reason  has  moons,  but  moons  not  hers 

Lie  mirror'd  on  the  sea, 
Confounding  her  astronomers, 

But,  O !  delighting  me. 


t77] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


XLIII 
Verena  Raby  to  Hazel  Barrance 

My  Dear  Hazel, — My  last  letter  too,  on  this 
subject,  but  you  must  answer  it.  There  is  much 
in  yours  with  which  I  sympathize  and  I  think  I 
understand  all  of  it.  There  is  a  vein  of  almost 
fierce  fastidiousness  in  our  family  (your  grand- 
father had  too  much  of  it)  which  is  discernible  in 
you,  but  I  don't  despair  of  seeing  a  deal  of  it 
broken  down  when  you  meet  the  right  man.  So 
much  of  what  you  say  about  things  seems  to  me 
to  be  due  to  your  manlessness.  I  don't  believe 
that  any  wholly  right  view  of  life  is  possible  to 
celibates  or  those  who  have  never  loved.  They 
must  see  it  piecemeal.  I  don't  despair  of  you  at 
all,  but  you  must  get  out  of  the  habit  of  expect- 
ing perfection.  And  where  would  the  fun  of  mar- 
riage be  if  it  was  not  partly  warfare — give  and 
take? — ^Your  truly  loving  and  solicitous 

Aunt  V. 

P.iS'. — Don't  stop  writing  about  yourself  if  you 
^ave  any  prompting  to.  What  is  an  old  bed- 
ridden woman  for  but  to  try  and  help  others? 

[78] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


XLIV 

Patricia  Power  to  Clemency  Power 

You  Dear  Lucky  Clem, — I  am  so  glad  you 
are  fixed  up  all  comfy  and  I  wish  I  could  do  the 
same,  but  Herself  won't  hear  of  it.  She  says  that 
one  mad  daughter  out  in  the  world  when  there  is 
no  need  for  it  is  enough.  I  can't  make  her  see 
that  it  isn't  the  money  that  matters,  but  the  im- 
portance of  doing  something  for  the  sake  of  one's 
own  dignity.  All  the  same,  some  one  must  of 
course  stay  with  her.  I'm  sure  that  if  I  were  to 
go,  Adela  wouldn't  stick  it  another  minute.  But 
remember  me  if  you  ever  hear  of  an  opening  or  if 
this  Mr.  Haven  of  yours  is  proposing  to  distribute 
any  more  damsels  among  his  friends. 

Herself  has  been  very  fit  lately  and  we've  got 
two  more  Dexters — such  pets.  One  is  named 
Dilly  and  the  other  Dally,  but  that's  not  their 
nature.  We  liked  the  names  for  them,  that's  all. 
So  far  from  being  their  nature,  they  give  quarts  of 
milk. 

We  went  over  to  the  Pattern  at  Kilmakilloge 
last  week  in  the  motor-boat,  but  Tim  wouldn't  let 

[79] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


US  Stay  long  because  the  boys  were  out  with  their 
shillelaghs  and  he  was  fearful  of  a  fight.  But  it 
was  great  fun.  Dr.  O'Connor  was  there  with  his 
new  wife,  very  massive  and  handsome,  and  he 
was  so  comically  proud  of  her,  and  Mr.  Sheehan 
was  as  mischievous  as  ever  and  even  invited  us  to 
play  lawn  tennis  at  Derreen  by  moonlight.  It 
would  have  been  funny  if  we  had  and  Lord  Lans- 
downe  had  turned  up.  We  walked  round  the 
lake  once,  with  the  cripples,  and  gave  shillings  to 
I  don't  know  how  many  beggars,  and  then  Tim 
forced  us  away.  Every  one  was  jigging  then, 
except  those  who  were  singing  in  the  inn.  Good 
night,  lucky  one. — Your  only  Pat. 

P.S. — This  did  not  get  off  last  night  and  now 
I  reopen  it  to  say  that  I  am  enclosing  a  letter 
which  arrived  this  morning  and  has  all  the  appear- 
ance of  being  the  handiwork  of  a  beau.  I  like 
the  writing,  so  decisive  and  distinct.  P. 


[80] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


[Enclosure] 

XLV 

Bryan  Field  to  Clemency  Power 

Dear  Miss  Power, — I  promised  I  would  let 
you  know  when  I  was  returning  to  England. 
Well,  I  am  due  next  week,  for  the  hospital  is 
closing.  I  suppose  you  don't  know  of  a  nice  snug 
little  practice  in  a  good  sporting  neighbourhood 
with  several  wealthy  malades  imaginaires  of  both 
sexes  dotted  conveniently  about*?  That's  what  I 
want,  a  kind  of  sinecure.  Forgive  the  low  ambi- 
tion. Indeed  I  am  punished  already  for  indulg- 
ing it,  for  see  how  double-edged  the  word  ''sine- 
cure" is,  and  what  a  sarcasm  on  m)^  profession ! 

Having  had  one  or  two  letters  to  you  returned 
as  "gone  away"  I  have  sent  this  to  your  home 
address  to  be  forwarded.  I  hope  you  did  not 
think  that  I  should  let  you  go,  having  once  found 
you  I  The  skies  are  not  so  lavish  with  their  bless- 
ings as  that!  No,  begob!  I  shall  be  very  un- 
happy until  an  answer  comes  to  this.- — Yours  sin- 
cerely, Bryan  Field 


[81] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


XLVI 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Aunt, — Just  one  more  word,  then! 
— but  only  to  say  it's  no  good,  I  can't  agree  with 
you.  The  idea  of  marriage  being  necessarily  war- 
fare is  utterly  repugnant  to  me,  and  unless  a 
miracle  happens  I  shall  continue  to  go  on  doing 
my  best  to  be  happy  though  single.  I  see  no 
reason  whatever  for  people  to  scrap,  and  those 
who  like  it  always  fill  me  with  a  kind  of  disgust. 
Married  life  should  be  all  friendliness  and  nice- 
ness.  I  feel  so  strongly  about  married  happiness 
that  I  believe  if  I  were  asked  to  name  my  favor- 
ite poem  in  all  poetry  I  should  give  the  old  epitaph 
on  the  husband  who  so  quickly  followed  his  wife 
to  the  grave : 

She  first  deceased ;  he  for  a  little  tried 
To  live  without  her,  liked  it  not,  and  died. 

No  news  of  Horace  for  quite  a  long  time.  I 
suspect  him  of  searching  London  for  an  apothe- 
cary of  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  type  who  can  pro- 
vide love-philtxes  and  I  shall  look  at  my  drink 
very  narrowly  the  next  time  he  dines  here  or  I 

[82] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


meet  him  out.    It  would  be  like  him  to  put  a  love- 
philtre  on  the  market. — Your  loving  H. 

XLVII 

Clemency  Power  to  Bryan  Field 

Dear  Doctor, — It  was  very  nice  of  you  to 
write  and  I  am  sorry  that  I  missed  those  other 
letters.  If  you  kept  them,  please  send  them  on. 
I  am  now  in  a  very  different  employment  from 
that  which  I  had  when  we  used  to  meet.  I  am 
reader  to  an  invalid  lady — not,  I  hope,  a  per- 
manent invalid,  and  most  emphatically  not  one 
of  your  desired  malades  imaginaires — who  lives 
in  a  beautiful  house  in  Herefordshire.  My  duties 
are  not  confined  to  reading  aloud  but  comprise  a 
hundred  other  things  and  I  am  very  happy.  I 
don't  say  that  I  don't  often  regret  those  rough 
jolly  boys,  but  one  could  not  wish  the  War  to  last 
longer  just  for  one's  own  entertainment.  I  won- 
der how  some  of  our  old  friends  are — that  poor 
Madame  La  Touche,  does  she  still  carry  round 
the  bill  of  damage  done  and  horses  taken  which 
the  Germans  some  day  are  to  pay*?  And  old 
Gaston,  are  his  repentances   and  good  resolutions 

[83] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


any  more  binding?  How  long  ago  it  all  seems, 
and,  though  so  real,  how  like  a  dream  I  I  hope 
you  will  find  a  practice  to  your  mind,  but  I  am 
sure  you  don't  really  want  an  idle  one.  I  know 
too  much  about  your  zealous  way  with  sick  and 
wounded  men  ever  to  believe  that. — I  am,  yours 
sincerely,  Clemency  Power 

P.S. — What  does  "begob"  mean*?  I  don't  un- 
derstand foreign  languages. 

XLVIII 

Louisa  Parrish  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Verena, — I  was  glad  to  have  your 
niece's  letter  saying  that  you  are  progressing 
nicely.  I  am  so  afraid  of  those  falls,  and  you 
never  know  even  when  you  feel  v/ell  again 
whether  there  may  not  be  some  underlying  trou- 
ble to  break  out  again  at  any  moment.  We  shall 
all  pray  that  nothing  of  the  kind  will  happen  to 
you.  I  can't  help  wishing  that  you  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  attended  by  our  dear  Dr.  Cour- 
age.   He  is  so  clever  and  kind  and  thoughtful. 

My  rheumatism  has  been  troubling  me  again 

[84] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


lately  and  nothing  seems  to  do  it  any  good.  I 
deny  myself  sugar  and  potatoes  and  everything 
that  is  said  to  foster  it,  but  to  no  purpose.  I 
fear  it  is  so  deep-seated  that  I  shall  be  a  martyr 
to  it  all  my  life,  but  there  is  this  consolation  that 
the}'-  say  that  people  who  have  rheumatism  sel- 
dom have  anything  else.  In  this  world  we  can't 
expect  to  be  too  happy. 

We  have  been  in  great  trouble  lately  through 
want  of  maids.  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over 
the  servant  class,  but  they  don't  seem  to  value  a 
good  place  at  all  any  more.  Maid  after  maid 
has  been  here  and  has  left.  Whether  it  is  that 
we  haven't  a  cinema  near,  or  what,  I  don't  know, 
but  they  won't  stay.  And  the  wages  they  ask 
are  terrible.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  world  has 
gone  mad.  The  wonderful  thing  is  that  they  can 
always  find  some  one  to  carry  their  boxes,  and 
they  get  away  so  quickly.  Not  that  we  have  ever 
missed  anything,  but  they  seem  to  decide  to  go  all 
of  a  sudden,  and  no  kind  of  consideration  for  us, 
and  me  with  my  rheumatism,  ever  stops  them. 
How  different  from  my  young  days  when  old 
Martha  our  cook  went  on  for  ever  at  I  am  sure 
not  more  than  twenty  pounds  a  year,  and  Arthur 

[85] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


the  butler  never  dreamed  of  leaving  or  asking  for 
a  rise.  But  since  the  War  everybody  is  wild  for 
excitement  and  change.  I  must  stop  now  as  the 
Doctor  is  waiting  downstairs. — Your  sincerely 
loving  friend,  Louisa 

P.S.—l  reopen  this,  later,  to  say  that  I  have 
just  heard  that  my  poor  cousin  Lady  Smythe  is 
to  undergo  an  operation. 

XLIX 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Verena,  my  dear,  apropos  of  the  newspapers 
and  your  dread  of  all  their  alarms  and  excursions, 
don't  believe  everything  you  read.  Fleet  Street 
has  to  live,  and  it  can  do  so  only  by  selling  its 
papers,  which  have  first  to  be  filled.  Take,  as  an 
example  of  exaggeration,  the  outcry  against  De- 
partmental inefficiency  as  if  it  were  a  new  thing. 
It  has  always  been  the  same,  only  the  scale  was 
larger  during  the  War  and  after  it.  There  have 
always  been  round  pegs  in  square  holes,  and  dis- 
regard of  public  money,  and,  as  I  happen  to  know, 
improper  destruction  of  documents. 
[86] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


You  say  you  want  a  story  now  and  then.  Well, 
here  is  one  from  my  own  experience,  gathered  as 
it  happens  in  the  very  country  the  violation  of 
v.-hich  brought  us  into  the  struggle,  and  bearing 
upon  official  cynicism  too. 

Some  years  ago,  I  was  travelling  by  a  small 
cross-country  railway  in  Belgium.  It  was  a  bad 
train  at  all  times,  but  on  this  occasion  it  behaved 
with  alarming  eccentricity:  at  one  time  tearing 
along  by  leaps  and  bounds,  and  then  becoming 
snailier  than  the  snailiest,  until  at  last,  just  out- 
side a  station,  it  stopped  altogether.  We  waited 
and  waited;  nothing  happened;  and  so  first  one 
passenger  and  then  another  alighted  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  until  gradually  every  one  of  us 
was  on  the  line.  Why  the  train  did  not  imme- 
diately rush  on  and  leave  us  all  behind  I  cannot 
say;  but,  as  you  will  agree,  it  might  easily  have 
done  so,  for  when  we  reached  the  engine  it  was 
discovered  that  both  the  driver  and  stoker  were 
gloriously  and  wildly  drunk. 

There  are  never  lacking  leaders  on  such  occa- 
cions  as  these — and  we  quickly  had  several, 
equally  noisy;  but  by  degrees  some  kind  of  policy 
was  agreed  upon,  and  we  all  marched  in  a  foolish 

[87] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


procession  to  the  station  behind  the  group  of  three 
gentlemen  who  led  us,  and  who  walked  (and 
stumbled  over  the  sleepers)  abreast,  either  side- 
ways or  backwards  as  they  thought  of  new  words 
and  new  gestures  to  apply  to  the  outrage.  At  the 
station  we  were  met  by  the  station-master,  and  a 
battle  of  explanations  and  protests  and  repeti- 
tions set  in  and  was  waged  terrifically,  the  issue 
of  which  was  the  production  of  a  large  sheet  of 
paper  on  which  we  all,  one  by  one,  signed  our 
names  beneath  a  record  of  the  offence,  with  the 
date  and  place  carefully  noted.  By  the  time  this 
was  done  the  station-master  had  managed  to  find 
a  new  and  sober  driver  and  stoker,  and  the  train 
could  resume  its  journey. 

I — perhaps  because  I  was  English,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  gain — happened  to  be  the  last  to 
sign,  and  therefore  the  last  to  rejoin  the  train. 
As  I  was  getting  into  it  I  found  that  I  had 
left  my  pipe  in  the  office,  and  I  hurried  back  to 
recapture  it.  I  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  station- 
master  placing  the  last  of  the  pieces  of  the  tom- 
up  manifesto  on  the  fire. 

After  that  I  feel  that  you  must  have  something 
[88] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


more  than  usually  beautiful  in  the  way  of  a  short 
poem.     Try  this: — 

Here  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady, 

Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she ; 
I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 

That  ever  was  in  West  Country. 
But  beauty  vanishes ;  beauty  passes ; 

However  rare — rare  it  be ; 
And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 

This  lady  of  the  West  Country? 

Having  copied  that  out  it  occurs  to  me  that 
it  is  almost  too  personal  and  memento-mori-ish. 
Let  me  hasten  to  say  that  the  part  of  the  West 
Country  indicated  is  not  Herefordshire  but,  let 
us  say,  Gloucestershire.  How  careful  one  always 
has  to  be — and  isn't  I  R.  H. 


Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Aunt, — I  had  anticipated  your  ob- 
jection to  the  marriage  of  first-cousins,  which  is 
one  of  your  arguments  against  my  courtship  of 
Hazel.  An  acquaintance  of  mine  who  is  con- 
nected with  a  statistical  laboratory  has  long  been 
making  enquiries  into  the  whole  matter  of  con- 

[89] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


sanguinity,  and  the  results  are  surprising.  The 
children  of  first-cousins  are  by  no  means  doomed 
to  imbecility  or  decadence.  But  even  if  they  were 
that  should  not  necessarily  deter  me,  for  the  union 
of  Hazel  and  myself  might  prove  to  be  childless, 
although  none  the  less  happy  for  that,  and  it 
would  be  grievous  and  tragic  to  permit  a  super- 
stition to  keep  us  sundered. 

But  I  am  letting  the  whole  matter  rest  for  a 
while  and  endeavouring  to  soothe  my  fever  by 
concentrating  once  again  on  financial  schemes. 
For  without  money  I  have  no  home  to  offer  any 
wife.  You  will  remember  my  project,  in  which  I 
still  believe  implicitly,  for  establishing  a  Cinema 
in  the  City*?  Well,  it  has  fallen  through.  The 
reply  from  the  only  churchwarden  who  has  been 
polite  enough  to  answer  my  very  courteous  letter 
is  unsatisfactory.  He  displays  an  antiquated  re- 
luctance to  come  into  line  with  the  march  of  prog- 
ress. And  as  the  price  of  ordinary  building  land 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Cheapside  is  prohibitive 
I  must  reluctantly  abandon  the  notion  either  as 
unripe  or  as  unsuited  to  my  hands.  But  I  am 
sure  I  was  on  the  right  track. 

I  now  have  a  new  and  more  practical  scheme 

[90] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


to  unfold.  While  walking  down  the  Strand  yes- 
terday I  made  a  curious  discovery  in  which  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  interested.  I  noticed  that  in 
the  whole  street  there  is  no  shop  devoted  to 
woman's  dress — not  even  a  milliner's.  Consider- 
ing that  the  Strand  is  always  too  full  of  people  of 
both  sexes  and  that  it  is  largely  a  pleasure  street 
— I  mean  that  the  people  have  time  to  look  about 
and  money  to  spend — this  is  a  very  strange  thing 
and  I  am  sure  there  would  be  big  profits  in  rem- 
edying it.  My  idea  is  to  find  the  capital  for  an 
emporium  to  be  established  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Beaver  Hut,  where  men  and 
women  are  passing  the  whole  time;  visitors  to 
London-  staying  at  the  Savoy  and  other  great 
hotels — many  of  them  very  wealthy  Americans; 
— people  arriving  at  Charing  Cross  from  Kent 
(one  of  the  richest  counties) ;  and  so  on.  How 
natural  for  the  men  to  wish  to  give  the  women 
something  pretty  to  wear! — to  say  nothing  of  the 
women's  own  constant  desire  for  new  clothes  and 
hats. 

All  that  is  needed  is  a  certain  amount  of  capital 
to  build  and  stock  with,  and  the  services  of  a  first- 
class  man  from  one  of  the  big  Oxford  Street 

[91] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


places  to  act  as  manager.  If  you  are  sufficiently 
interested  in  the  scheme  to  invest  in  it,  please  let 
mc  know  the  amount. 

I  hope  you  are  better.     I  have  one  of  my  bad 
attacks  of  nasal  catarrh. — Yours  sincerely, 

Horace  Mun-Brown 


LI 

Roy  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — I  am  broken-hearted 
and  turn  first  to  you  for  sympathy  as  you  are 
always  so  kind  and  all  my  pals  are  out  of  town. 
The  fact  is,  Trixie  and  I  have  parted  for  ever. 
I  can't  explain  how  it  happened,  because  my  brain 
is  all  in  a  whirl  about  it,  and  really  I  don't  know, 
but  somehow  I  offended  her  and  it  is  all  off.  My 
life  is  a  blank  and  all  the  plans  I  had  made  are 
mockeries.  I  had  even  begun  to  look  in  furniture- 
shop  windows.  And  then  it  all  went  wrong,  and 
when  I  got  to  the  Jazzle  Ball  a  little  bit  late, 
which  I  couldn't  help,  I  found  that  she  had  given 
every  dance  away  to  other  men,  one  of  whom  is 
an  officer  bounder  whom  I  had  most  carefully 

[93] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


warned  her  against:  a  regular  T.G.  (Temporary 
Gentleman)   of  the  worst  type. 

I  wish  you  were  better  so  that  I  might  come 
and  talk  to  you  about  it  all.  I  could  tell  you  in 
words  so  much  more  than  I  can  write,  especially 
with  the  mouldy  pens  at  this  Club.  The  only 
satisfactory  part  is  that  I  had  not  bought  the 
engagement  ring,  not  having  enough  money  for 
It.  I  don't  mean  that  I  should  regret  the  money 
but  that  I  should  hate  to  receive  the  blighted 
thing  back.  As  it  is  I  had  not  given  her  any- 
thing but  chocolates,  and  of  course  we  exchanged 
cigarette  cases:  but  I  don't  intend  to  use  hers  any 
more.  I  could  not  enjoy  a  cigarette  from  a  case 
so  fraught  with  memories. 

If  I  were  a  little  more  independent  I  should  try 
to  forget  my  sorrows  in  travel,  but  I  can't.  And 
dancing  has  ceased  to  interest  me.  In  fact,  I  be- 
lieve it  is  this  dancing  that  is  very  largely  the 
matter  with  England.  If  we  danced  less  and 
worked  more  I  am  sure  we  should  be  "winning 
the  Peace"  more  thoroughly.  If  you  have  any 
ideas  for  me  of  a  strenuous  kind  I  should  like  to 
hear  of  them,  for  I  am  all  for  toil  now.    I  have 

[93] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


frittered  my  time  away  too    long. — Your  affec- 
tionate nephew,  Roy 

P.S. — If  you  are  writing  to  Hazel  or  any  one 
at  home  please  don't  mention  my  tragedy  as  they 
did  not  know  I  was  engaged. 


Ln 

Bryan  Field  to  Sir  Smithfield  Mark 

Dear  Sir  Smithfield, — You  have  always 
been  so  kind  in  giving  me  advice,  and  now  and 
then  a  hand,  that  I  am  following  the  natural 
course  of  gratitude  and  coming  to  trouble  you 
again. 

The  hospital  in  France  is  just  closing  and  I 
shall  be  on  the  loose.  I  shall  look  out  for  a  prac- 
tice, but,  meanwhile,  I  wondered  if  any  rural 
friend  of  your  own  might  be  in  need  of  a  locum : 
I  say  rural  because  the  desire  to  be  in  old  England 
again  is  very  strong,  after  so  many  months  of  this 
foreign  land,  which,  however  beautiful  in  effects 
of  light  and  space,  never  quite  catches  the  right 
country  feeling.    I  wonder  if  you  know  any  one 

[94] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


in,  say,  Herefordshire,  who  wants  a  changed    Of 
course  a  Bart's  man. — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Bryan  Field 

LIII 

JosEY  Raby  to  Vincent  Frank 

Darling  Vin, — It  is  dreadful,  but  father 
won't  hear  of  an  engagement.  He  is  so  absurdly 
old-fashioned  and  does  not  realize  that  everything 
has  changed.  No  doubt  when  he  was  your  age, 
long  ago  in  the  eighteen-nineties,  people  could 
wait  for  each  other;  but  why  should  we?  I  don't 
suppose  that  then  they  even  knew  how  to  kiss. 
He  says  the  most  ridiculous  things.  He  says  that 
a  girl  ought  to  know  a  man  at  least  for  a  year  and 
that  twenty-one  is  the  earliest  age  at  which  she 
should  marry.  Why,  Juliet  was  only  about  four- 
teen when  she  was  betrothed  to  Romeo,  and  lots 
of  Indian  girls  are  widows  before  our  hair  is  up. 
And  what  is  the  sense  of  love  at  first  sight  if  you 
have  to  wait?  Father  also  says  that  aviation  is 
not  a  desirable  profession  for  a  son-in-law,  en- 
tirely forgetting  that  half  the  fun  of  our  marriage 
will  be  the  flying  honeymoon. 

[95] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


I  think  you  had  better  call  on  father  boldly  and 
have  it  out  with  him. — Your  own  J. 

LR 

Theodore  _^by  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Old  V., — If  Josey  writes  to  you  for 
sympathy  in  her  struggle  with  a  stern  and  heart- 
less parent,  please  oblige  me  and  help  the  little 
idiot  (bless  her,  all  the  same!)  by  supporting  me. 

These  are  the  cold  facts.  She  is  eighteen  and 
has  been  frivolling  far  too  much,  largely  because 
she  has  no  mother  and  I  have  been  too  much  oc- 
cupied to  attend  to  her  properly.  Also  because 
the  War  made  frivolling  too  easy  by  fledging  so 
many  infants  at  lightning  speed.  Among  the  ac- 
quaintances that  she  has  picked  up  at  this  and 
that  the  dansant  is  a  flying  boy,  and,  just  because 
other  boys  and  girls  have  married  in  haste,  she 
must  needs  insist  on  marrying  in  haste  too.  No 
doubt  she  thinks  herself  in  love  and  no  doubt  also 
he  does,  although  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  find 
that  he  is  more  pursued  than  pursuing,  as  is  so 
often  the  case  now ;  but  the  whole  thing  is  deriva- 
tive really,  and  I  can't  have  my  one  little  Precious 

[96] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


thrown    away    on    an    experiment    in    imitation. 

The  bore  is  that — to  such  a  pass  has  the  world 
come! — she  might  at  any  moment  perform  the 
Gretna  Green  act.  Self-restraint,  you  see,  is  a 
little  out  of  fashion  up  here:  we  all  live  for  our- 
selves now,  to  the  great  detriment  of  the  Human 
Family  which  peace  was  to  consolidate.  To  for- 
bid her  to  see  the  boy  seems  to  me  a  mistake.  If 
you  were  well  I  should  ask  you  to  invite  her  to 
the  country,  but  you  are  not  well,  my  poor  dear, 
and  she  wouldn't  go  even  if  you  were — not  so 
long  as  her  warrior  is  accessible.  And  he  seems 
to  be  always  in  town,  the  exceptional  perils  of  the 
air  being,  it  appears,  compensated  for  by  excep- 
tional opportunities  of  leave. 

So  far  as  I  can  gather  he  is  a  decent  young 
fellow  and  he  may  be  on  my  side — but  he  doesn't 
come  and  see  me  and  it  seems  rather  absurd  to 
go  to  see  him.  The  new  soldier,  and  especially 
when  he  flies,  is  not  to  be  found  at  home  too 
easily!  This  one  seems  to  be  the  usual  enfran- 
chised public-school  boy — to  whom  the  won- 
ders and  mysteries  of  life  are  either  top-hole  or 
incomprehensible,  or  both,  and  an  eclipse  of  the 
sun  would  be  merely  a  "solar  stunt." 

[97] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


Even  if  Josey  had  her  foolish  way  I  don't  sup- 
pose that  the  end  of  the  world  would  arrive,  but 
it  would  be  sad  and  disappointing  and  I  am  cer- 
tain that  she  would  very  quickly  regret  her  im- 
petuosity.— Yours  as  ever,  Theo. 

P.S. — ^AU  this  about  me  and  mine  and  nothing 
of  your  trouble.  Dear  old  V.  I  do  so  hope  that 
you  are  mending.  I  must  come  and  see  you  and 
the  old  home  soon.  It  will  be  a  dreadful  thought 
some  day — how  one  postpones  these  necessary 
acts  I 

LV 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  "Uncle"  Richard, — I  wonder  if  you 
could  possibly  come  down,  if  only  for  a  night,  to 
see  Aunt  Verena.  She  really  needs  a  good  talk 
with  some  one  sensible  and  frank.  We  all  do  our 
best  but  we  are  not  sufficient.  It  is  very  bad,  I 
am  sure,  for  a  naturally  active  woman  such  as  she 
is  to  be  forced  to  lie  still  in  this  way.  She  has 
even  begun  to  talk  about  the  extent  to  which 
complete  invalidism  should  be  endured,  how  fair 

[98] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


it  is  to  the  community  to  be  a  deadweight,  and  so 
on.  So  if  you  could  manage  even  a  flying  visit 
it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  us  all  and  a  great 
comfort  to  her. — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Nest  A 
LVI 

Richard  Haven  to  Nesta  Rossiter 

Dear  Nesta,  it  is  impossible,  I  fear,  for  a  week 
or  so.  But  I  will  come  then,  although  only  for  a 
night. — Yours,  R.  H. 

LVII 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  Richard, — I  am  very  unhappy.  I  do 
not  get  any  better  and  I  am  a  deadweight.  I 
want  to  arrange  my  affairs  and  I  have  no  adviser 
but  you.  I  cannot  bear  to  be  an  imposition  on 
others,  even  when  they  assume  the  burden  so 
smilingly.  The  kindness  of  people  to  people  is 
far  more  extraordinary  than  their  unkindness,  I 
think.  If  I  were  to  take  an  overdose,  should  I 
also  be  "of  unsound  mind'?" — Your  very  depend- 
ent and  despondent  V, 

[99] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


LVIII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

[  Telegram  ] 

Coming  by  2=35  for  night.  R.  H. 

LIX 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 
\By  }iand\ 

Dearest  Richard — Just  a  line  to  say  good- 
bye and  to  thank  you  for  coming  down.  It  is 
monstrous  to  ask  you  to  come  so  far  for  such  a 
short  time.  I  feel  much  more  serene  and  shall 
now  be  brave  again.  I  hope  you  will  have  an 
easy  journey. 

I  have  been  wondering  most  of  the  night  if  it 
was  not  very  unfair  to  force  so  much  thinking 
upon  you,  when  you  are,  I  am  sure,  busy  enough. 
And  I  don't  want  to  be  unfair.  If  I  did,  I  should 
just  leave  all  my  money  to  you,  with  an  intima- 
tion that  you  were  my  Grand  Almoner,  and  die 
[100] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


in  peace.  But  I  can't  do  that,  partly  because  you 
might  die  too  and  there  is  no  one  in  the  world 
but  you  who  is  really  to  be  trusted.  Do  believe 
I  am  truly  grateful  for  your  daily  letters  and 
your  persistence  in  what  must  often  be  an  irk- 
some task. — Yours  always,  V. 

LX 
Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Poor  Dear,  "irksome"  be  d — d!  There 
is  nothing  irksome  in  talking  to  you  on  paper  for 
a  little  while  every  day.  Indeed,  a  lot  of  it  is 
pure  luxurious  pleasure,  because  I  can  indulge  in 
the  rapture  of  (so  to  speak)  hearing  my  own 
platitudinous  cocksure  voice. 

It  was  a  long  journey,  but  I  am  safely  back. 
It  was  splendid  to  find  you  looking  so  little  pulled 
down  and  to  see  all  those  nice  faces  round  you. 
I  pride  myself  on  being  able  to  pick  a  Reader 
against  any  man  I 

While  the  train  was  stopping — much  too  long 
— ^just  outside  some  country  station,  I  watched 
three  farm-labourers  hoeing,  and  all  three  were 
smoking  cigarettes.     Now,  before  the  War  you 

[101] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


never  saw  a  farm-labourer  with  a  cigarette  and 
you  rarely  saw  him  smoking  during  work.  I  am 
quite  certain  also  that  you  can't  smoke  a  cigarette 
and  hoe  without  doing  injustice  either  to  the 
tobacco  or  to  the  crop.  No  farmer  to-day  would, 
however,  I  am  sure,  have  the  courage  to  protest. 

"But,"  I  said  to  a  man  the  other  week  when 
he  was  blaming  one  of  his  messengers  for  an  un- 
pardonable delay,  "if  he  behaves  like  that,  it  is 
your  business  as  an  employer  to  sack  him." 

"Sack  him!"  he  replied  blankly.  "Employers 
don't  give  the  sack  any  more;  they  get  it." 

And  this  is  true. 

But  a  change  must  come,  and  the  interesting 
thing  to  see  will  be  how  complete  that  change  is. 
One  thing  is  certain,  and  that  is  that  Capital  and 
Labour  will  never  resume  their  old  relations; 
Labour  has  tasted  too  much  blood.  And  you 
can't  put  servants  into  khaki  and  tell  them  they 
are  our  saviours  and  then  expect  them  to  return 
to  the  status  of  servitude — at  any  rate  not  the 
same  ones.  The  process  of  grinding  the  working  , 
classes  back  to  their  old  position  of  subjection  is 
going  to  be  impossible;  and  the  statesmen  will 
find  that  reconstruction  must  be  based  on  founda- 
[102] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


tions  which  are  set  on  a  higher  level  than  the  old. 

A  man  in  the  train  gave  me  a  new  definition 
of  the  extreme  of  meanness:  Saving  a  rose  from 
Queen  Alexandra's  Day  for  use  again  next  year. 

Here  is  the  poem : — 

Since  all  that  I  can  ever  do  for  thee 
Is  to  do  nothing,  this  my  prayer  must  be; 
That  thou  may'st  never  guess  nor  ever  see 
The  all-endured  this  nothing-done  costs  me. 

Good  night.  R.  H. 

LXI 

Verena  Raby  to  Her  Brother  Walter  in 
Texas 

My  Dear  Walter, — It  is  far  too  long  since  I 
wrote  to  you,  but  now  I  have  only  too  much  time 
for  letters,  as  an  accident  hurt  my  back  and  I 
have  to  lie  up  with  too  little  to  do. 

I  wonder  so  often  how  you  are,  and  you  never 
send  a  line,  nor  does  Sally.  You  are  the  only  one 
of  our  family  of  whom  no  one  ever  hears.  Do 
make  a  great  effort  and  answer  this  and  tell  me 
all  about  yourself  and  your  life  on  the  ranch.  It 
must  be  so  very  different  from  ours.    If  you  have 

[103] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


a  camera,  couldn't  you  send  some  photographs? 
Remember  I  have  never  seen  Sally.  I  don't  even 
know  if  there  are  any  children. 

The  garden  to-day  looks  lovely  from  my  win- 
dow. The  old  place  has  not  changed  much  since 
our  childish  days,  but  the  trees  are  higher.  I  have 
done  very  little  to  it  beyond  keeping  it  in  repair 
and  installing  electric  light,  which  is  made  by  an 
oil  engine,  and  a  few  modem  things  like  that. 
There  are  more  bath-rooms,  for  instance.  One  of 
them  has  been  made  out  of  that  funny  little  bed- 
room where  the  rat  came  down  the  chimney  and 
you  brought  up  one  of  your  young  terriers  to  kill 
it  and  the  dog  was  afraid  and  it  nearly  broke 
your  heart.     You  haven't  forgotten  that? 

The  big  playroom  at  the  top  I  have  not  touched. 
It  has  the  same  wall-paper.  Whenever  any  of 
the  others — I  mean  the  girls — come  to  see  me  and 
we  go  up  there  we  always  have  a  good  cry.  The 
screen  with  the  Punch  drawings,  the  big  doll's 
house,  the  rocking  horse :  they  are  still  there.  Lit- 
tle Lobbie,  Nesta's  second  child  (Nesta  is  Lu- 
cilla's  daughter,  who  married  an  artist),  plays 
there  now.  Nesta  is  staying  here  to  keep  me  com- 
pany while  I  am  ill.  I  don't  have  any  pain;  I 
[104] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


merely  have  to  lie  still  and  give  the  spine  a  chance. 

Kington  has  grown  very  little.  There  are  new 
houses  near  the  station  and  we  have  a  municipal 
park  I  That  is  about  all.  But  it  isn't  what  it 
was — probably  no  English  town  is  since  the  mo- 
tor car  came  into  being.  Some  may  be  better,  but 
I  think  that  Kington  has  deteriorated  and  very 
few  of  our  friends  remain.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grace 
are  still  living  at  the  Tower,  but  alone  and  very 
old ;  all  the  family  has  dispersed.  One  thing  that 
has  not  changed  is  the  temperature  of  the  church ; 
which  is  still  cold.  But  there  is  a  long — too  long 
— Roll  of  Honour  in  the  porch.  How  you  must 
have  regretted  that  lameness  of  yours  when  the 
War  broke  out! 

I  manage  to  keep  in  touch  with  most  of  us, 
chiefly  through  their  children.  Letitia  I  never 
see.  I  should  like  to,  but  she  is  not  strong,  and 
Tunbridge  Wells  is  a  long  way  off,  and  it  is  im- 
possible to  detach  her  from  her  husband,  whom 
we  rather  avoid,  I  am  afraid  she  is  not  happy, 
but  I  can  do  very  little  to  help.  Clara's  son  and 
daughter — Roy  and  Hazel — are  very  lively  corre- 
spondents, and  Evangeline,  their  youngest,  seems 
a  thoughtful  child;  but  I  fear  that  Hector  Bar- 

[105] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


ranee  can  be  rather  difficult  at  times.  Theodore's 
only  girl  is  just  eighteen.  Anna's  boy  Horace  is 
a  rather  serious  young  man  at  the  Bar.  Lionel  is 
still  unmarried;  he  was  made  a  C.B.E.  in  the  War. 
Ronald  is  also  unmarried  and  I  hear  from  him 
now  and  then,  but  his  duties  keep  him  very  close 
in  Edinburgh.  Every  one  is  very  kind  to  me  in 
my  illness,  Richard  Haven — you  remember  him? 
— writing  every  day.  He  is  fixed  in  London. 
Nellie  Sandley,  whom  you  were  so  sweet  upon 
that  summer  at  Lyme  Regis,  died  last  week,  poor 
girl,  of  pneumonia. 

I  wonder  if  all  this  interests  you  in  the  least, 
or  if  your  new  life  in  your  new  country  is  all- 
absorbing.  It  would  be  delightful  to  see  you 
again.  But  at  any  rate  do  write  and  send  some 
photographs  if  you  can.  Write  directly  you  get 
this  and  then  a  longer  letter  later. — Your  loving 
sister,  Verena 

P.S. — I  often  wonder  if  you  would  not  like  the 
series  of  hunting  scenes  by  Aiken  that  used  to 
be  in  the  dining-room.  Let  me  know  and  I  will 
send  them. 


[106] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


/  LXII 

VerenA  Raby  to  Theodore  Raby 

My  Dear  Theo, — How  very  delightful  to 
hear  from  you — even  though  it  is  such  a  tale  of 
woe.  I  don't  want  you  to  have  more  of  such  per- 
plexities, but  I  do  want  to  have  another  letter.  It 
was  odd  too  because  I  was  just  beginning  a  long 
one  to  Walter  asking  for  his  news  and  telling  him 
mine. 

If  Josey  writes  to  me,  you  may  be  sure  I  will 
be  on  your  side — but  can't  you  get  her  something 
to  do*?  It  is  idleness  and  enough  money  to  buy 
new  frocks  that  lead  to  these  problems.  I  should 
like  her  to  come  here,  but,  as  you  say,  she  wouldn't 
accept  just  now. — Your  very  loving  V. 

LXIII 

Evangeline  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — I  hope  you  are  better. 
I  told  you  some  time  ago  that  we  were  preparing 
a  great  surprise  for  you  to  cheer  you  up  on  your 
bed  of  sickness  and  pain.     Well,  it  is  now  ready 

[107] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


and  I  send  the  first  number.  If  you  get  well 
quickly  there  will  never  be  another.  It  is  called 
The  Beguiler  and  has  been  written  for  you  chiefly 
by  the  girls  here.  I  am  the  editor.  My  great 
friend  Mabel  Beresford  copied  it  all  out.  Doesn't 
she  write  beautifully?  I  hope  you  will  like  it. 
Roy  has  read  it  and  he  says  it  ought  to  deliver 
the  goods. — Your  loving  Evangeline 


[1 08] 


No.  1.  May,  1919 


THE   BEGUILER 

OR 

THE  INVALID'S  FRIEND 


A  Miscellany 


COMPILED    BY 

EVANGELINE  BARRANCE 

ASSISTED  BY  A  BUNCH   OF   FLOWERS 


[109] 


The  Beguiler 


PEOPLE  WHO  REALLY  DESERVE  THE 
O.B.E. 

L  COOK 

If  ever  there  was  a  heroine  in  real  life  it  is  Cook.  She 
has  to  be  all  the  time  in  lAe  kitchen  even  when  the  sun 
shines  and  the  birds  are  singing.  The  kitchen  must  be 
hot  or  the  things  wouldn't  be  properly  done  for  dinner. 

She  is  always  cooking  things  for  other  people  and  she 
doesn't  get  anything  to  eat  till  they  have  finished,  al- 
though of  course  she  can  taste  as  she  goes  along.  This 
is  a  delicious  thing  to  do,  and  when  she  is  in  a  good  hu- 
mour she  lets  us  dip  our  fingers  in,  but  usually  she  says 
"Don't  stop  here  hindering  me." 

She  never  goes  out  except  to  see  if  there  is  another 
egg  or  to  pick  mint  or  parsley  or  to  talk  to  the  butcher's 
boy,  who  is  terrified  of  her.  Sometimes  she  has  to  catch 
a  chicken  and  kill  it  and  afterwards  she  has  to  pluck  it. 

Our  cook  is  very  fat  and  when  she  goes  upstairs  she 
holds  her  side  and  pants.  On  Sundays  she  doesn't  go 
to  Church  but  to  Chapel  and  she  wears  very  bright 
colours.  She  had  a  lover  once  but  he  died.  His  por- 
trait is  in  her  bedroom  with  his  funeral  card  under  it. 
She  says  that  her  troth  is  in  the  tomb  with  him  and  never 
can  she  marry  another.  She  also  says  that  the  talk 
about  cooks  and  policemen  having  a  natural  attraction 
for  each  other  is  nonsense. 

Her  masterpieces  are  apple  charlotte,  bread-and-butter 
pudding,  and  Lancashire  hot  pot.  She  also  makes  de- 
licious stews,  which  are  better  than  other  cooks',  mother 
says,  because  she  fries  the  vegetables  first. 

Her  name  is  Gladys  Mary  but  we  call  her  Cook.  She 
says  that  after  a  certain  age,  cooks  have  the  right  to  be 

[no] 


The  Beguiler  3 

^i^"^—^^'^^— ^— — — "^—-i^i— »— ^— ^— — »— ^■^^^— »— ^^— ^^^^^—i ^ 

called  Mrs.,  but  that  she  is  a  very  long  way  from  that 
age  herself. 

We  are  all  horribly  afraid  that  she  will  give  notice, 
because  a  new  one  would  be  so  hard  to  get.  There  is 
nothing  we  wouldn't  do  for  her.  She  could  cook  as 
badly  as  she  liked  and  no  one  would  dare  to  say  any- 
thing.    But  she  cooks  beautifully. 

She  truly  deserves  the  O.B.E.  "Rose" 

HISTORICAL  RHYMES 

I.     QUEEN  ELIZABETH  AND  SIR  WALTER 
RALEIGH 

It  was  a  wet  and  windy  day 

The  ground  was  damp  and  dirty 
But  yet  the  Queen  she  would  not  stay. 

They  pressed  her,  she  grew  shirty. 

"A  murrain  on  you,"  she  replied 

"/  care  not  for  the  weather." 
And  she  went  forth  in  all  her  pride 

In  silk  and  ruff  and  feather. 

Beside  her  walked  her  courtiers  gay 
Although  with  cold  they  shivered ; 

How  cold  they  were  they  dared  not  say 
Lest  with  a  glance  be  withered. 

Look!  in  the  middle  of  the  road 

A  puddle  wide  and  frightening. 
"Wait,  Madam!" — forward  Raleigh  strode 

His  satin  cloak  untightening. 

Down  in  the  wet  he  flung  his  cloak. 

She  stepped  across  quite  dryly. 
Then  with  her  sweetest  smile  she  spoke, 

Commending  him  most  highly. 

"Pansy" 

[111] 


The  Beguiler 


RULES  AS  TO  BIRTHDAYS 

FOR  THE  BENEFIT  OF  PARENTS 

The  person  whose  birthday  it  happens  to  be  should  be 
allowed  to  get  up  when  they  choose.  There  should  be 
sausages  for  breakfast. 

It  seems  hardly  necessary  to  point  out  that  there 
should  be  no  lessons,  and  no  walk. 

Lunch  should  be  chosen  by  the  birthday  person. 

Sample  Menu  for  a  Birthday  Lunch: — 

Roast  Chicken. 

Bread  Sauce. 

Green  Peas. 

Squiggly  Potatoes. 

Trifle,  with  chocolate  eclairs  as  an  alternative. 

In  choosing  birthday  presents  people  should  remember 
that  the  whole  point  of  a  present  is  that  it  is  an  extra. 
Clothes  should  never  be  given  for  birthday  presents, 
because  one  has  to  have  clothes  and  it  is  not  at  all 
exciting  to  be  given  a  pair  of  stockings.  Handkerchiefs 
do  not  count  as  clothes  because  they  are  pretty. 

Some  really  good  entertainment  should  be  arranged 
for  the  afternoon.  If  in  London  a  matinee  is  suggested, 
followed  by  tea  at  Rumpelmayer's.  Bedtime  should 
come  at  least  two  hours  later  than  usual.  If  only  these 
few  simple  rules  could  be  committed  to  memory  by 
those  in  authority  what  completely  satisfactory  occasions 
birthdays  would  be. 

"Chrysanthemum" 

[112] 


The  Beguiler 


BADLY-HEAilD   SAYINGS:    1.    "hITCH   YOTJU   WAGON   TO   A   TAB." 


[113J 


The  Beguiler 


A  FABLE 

There  was  once  a  pine  wood  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  and 
in  the  middle  of  the  wood  was  a  lovely  silver  birch  which 
could  not  grow  as  it  should  because  the  pine  trees  were 
so  closely  packed  about  it. 

Instead  of  being  sorry  for  it,  the  pine  trees  were  in- 
sulting. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  anyway?"  they  said, 
"You  weren't  invited.  This  is  a  pine  wood.  Why  aren't 
you  out  there  on  the  common,  among  the  brake  fern,  with 
all  the  others  of  your  finicking  useless  tribe  ?  Wh6 
wants  silver  birches?  They  do  no  good  in  the  world." 
And  so  on. 

The  silver  birch,  who  was  a  perfect  lady,  made  no 
reply. 

And  then  a  war  came  and  it  was  necessary  to  get 
timber  for  all  kinds  of  purposes,  and  all  over  the  country 
the  woods  were  cut  down,  among  them  this  pine  wood, 
for  pine  is  very  useful  for  planks  for  building  huts. 

The  men  came  with  their  axes  and  felled  tree  after 
tree,  but  when  they  reached  the  silver  birch  they  said, 
"We'll  leave  this — it's  no  good  for  timber,  and  when  all 
these  others  are  gone  it  will  have  a  chance." 

And  so  it  was  left,  and  soon  it  stood  all  alone  and  very 
beautiful,  surrounded  by  the  dead  bodies  of  the  unkind 
pine  trees,  absolute  queen  of  the  hill. 

Being  a  perfect  lady  it  still  said  nothing  to  them,  nor 
had  it  even  smiled  as  they  tottered  and  fell. 

The  moral  is  that  every  one's  good  time  may  come. 

"Carnation" 

[114] 


The  Beguiler  7 

STRAY  THOUGHTS  ON  PARENTS 

Parents  are  always  saying  that  they  once  were  children 
too,  but  they  give  no  signs  of  it. 

It  is  a  peculiarity  of  parents  that  they  always  want  you 
to  change  your  boots. 

Parents  have  several  set  forms  of  speech,  of  which 
"You  seem  to  think  I'm  made  of  money"  is  one,  and 
"I  never  did  that  when  I  was  your  age"  is  another. 
They  also  wonder  "What  the  world  is  coming  to." 

Parents  live  in  houses,  usually  in  the  best  rooms. 
They  can't  bear  doors  either  to  be  left  open  or  shut 
with  a  bang. 

A  funny  thing  about  parents  is  that  they  can  find 
interesting  reading  in  newspapers. 

"TuLiPE  Noire" 


CORRESPONDENCE 

Dear  Editor, — You  did  me  the  honour  to  ask  me  to 
contribute  to  your  magazine,  but  as  I  am  no  writer  I  can 
send  you  nothing  of  my  own.  But  I  have  arranged  for 
a  very  nice  piece  of  nonsense  to  be  copied  out  for  you. 
It  was  written  by  a  mathematician  and  philosopher 
named  W.  K.  Clifford  and  was  published  years  ago  but 
seems  now  to  be  forgotten.  It  was  Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford 
who  wrote  a  delightful  book  for  children  called  The 
Getting-zvell  of  Dorothy  and  a  delightful  book  for 
grown-ups  called  Aunt  Anne.  Wishing  every  success  for 
The  Beguiler  in  its  most  admirable  campaign, — I  am, 
yours  faithfully,  Richard  Haven 

His  mark  X 

[H5] 


8  The  Beguiler 


THE  GIANT'S  SHOES 

BY   W.    K.   CLIFFORD 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  large  giant  who  lived  in  a 
small  castle:  at  least,  he  didn't  all  of  him  live  there,  but 
he  managed  things  in  this  wise.  From  his  earliest  youth 
up  his  legs  had  been  of  a  surreptitiously  small  size, 
unsuited  to  the  rest  of  his  body:  so  he  sat  upon  the 
south-west  wall  of  the  castle  with  his  legs  inside,  and  his 
right  foot  came  out  of  the  east  gate,  and  his  left  foot  out 
of  the  north  gate,  while  his  gloomy  but  spacious  coat- 
tails  covered  up  the  south  and  west  gates ;  and  in  this 
way  the  castle  was  defended  against  all  comers,  and  was 
deemed  impregnable  by  the  military  authorities.  This, 
however,  as  we  shall  soon  see,  was  not  the  case,  for  the 
giant's  boots  were  inside  as  well  as  his  legs :  but  as  he 
had  neglected  to  put  them  on  in  the  giddy  days  of  his 
youth,  he  was  never  afterwards  able  to  do  so,  because 
there  was  not  enough  room.  And  in  this  bootless  but 
compact  manner  he  passed  his  time. 

The  giant  slept  for  three  weeks  at  a  time  and  two 
days  after  he  woke  his  breakfast  was  brought  to  him, 
consisting  of  bright  brown  horses  sprinkled  on  his  bread 
and  butter.  Besides  his  boots  the  giant  had  a  pair  of 
shoes,  and  in  one  of  them  his  wife  lived  when  she  was  at 
home :  on  other  occasions  she  lived  m  the  other  shoe. 
She  was  a  sensible  practical  kind  of  woman,  with  two 
wooden  legs  and  a  clothes-horse,  but  in  other  respects 
not  rich.  The  wooden  legs  were  kept  pointed  at  the 
ends,  in  order  that  if  the  giant  were  dissatisfied  with  his 
breakfast  he  might  pick  up  any  stray  people  that  were 
within  reach,  using  his  wife  as  a  fork.  This  annoyed  the 
inhabitants  of  the  district,  so  they  built  their  church  in 
a  south-westerly  direction  from  the  castle,  behind  the 
giant's  back,  that  he  might  not  be  able  to  pick  them 
up  as  they  went  in.     But  those  who  stayed  outside  to 

[116] 


The  Beguiler 


play  pitch-and~toss  were  exposed  to  great  danger  and 
sufferings. 

Now,  in  the  village  there  were  two  brothers  of  alto- 
gether different  tastes  and  dispositions,  and  talents  and 
peculiarities  and  accomplishments,  and  in  this  way  they 
were  discovered  not  to  be  the  same  person.  The  elder 
of  them  was  most  marvellously  good  at  singing  and 
could  sing  the  Old  Hundredth  an  old  hundred  times 
without  stopping.  Whenever  he  did  this  he  stood  on 
one  leg  and  tied  the  other  round  his  neck  to  avoid  catch- 
ing cold  and  spoiling  his  voice;  but  the  neighbours  fled. 
And  he  was  also  a  rare  hand  at  making  guava  dumplings 
out  of  three  cats  and  a  shoehorn,  which  is  an  accomplish- 
ment seldom  met  with.  But  his  brother  was  a  more 
meagre  magnanimous  person,  and  his  chief  accomplish- 
ment was  to  eat  a  wagon-load  of  hay  overnight,  and  wake 
up  thatched  in  the  morning. 

The  whole  interest  of  this  story  depends  upon  the  fact 
that  the  giant's  wife's  clothes-horse  broke  in  consequence 
of  a  sudden  thaw,  being  made  of  organ  pipes.  So  she 
took  off  her  v/ooden  legs  and  stuck  them  in  the  ground, 
tying  a  string  from  the  top  of  one  to  the  top  of  the  other, 
and  hung  oui:  her  clothes  to  dry  on  that.  Now  this  was 
astutely  remarked  by  the  two  brothers,  who  therefore 
went  up  in  front  of  the  giant  after  he  had  his  breakfast. 
The  giant  called  out  "Fork!  fork  I"  but  his  wife,  trem- 
bling, hid  herself  in  the  more  recondite  toe  of  the  second 
shoe.  Then  the  singing  brother  began  to  sing:  but  he 
had  not  taken  into  account  the  pious  disposition  of  the 
giant,  who  instantly  joined  in  the  psalm,  and  this  caused 
the  singing  brother  to  burst  his  head  off,  but,  as  it  was 
tied  by  the  leg,  he  did  not  lose  it  altogether. 

But  the  other  brother,  being  well  thatched  on  account 
of  the  quantit}^  of  hay  he  had  eaten  overnight,  lay  down 
between  the  great  toe  of  the  giant,  and  the  next,  and 
wriggled.     So  the  giant,  being  unable  to  bear  tickling 


[117] 


10  The  Beguiler 

in  the  feet,  kicked  out  in  an  orthopodal  manner :  where- 
upon the  castle  broke  and  he  fell  backwards,  and  was  im- 
paled upon  the  sharp  steeple  of  the  church.  So  they  put 
a  label  on  him  on  which  was  written  "Nupides  Gigan- 
teus." 

That's  all. 


End  of  Number  i  of 
The  Beguiler  ;  or  The  Invalid's  Friend. 

(118] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


LXIV 

Verena  Raby  to  Evangeline  Barrance 

My  Dear  Evangeline, — The  Beguiler  is  by- 
far  the  best  magazine  I  ever  read.  I  prefer  it  to 
all  others,  and  if  I  were  allowed  to  get  up  I  should 
try  it  in  my  bath;  but  I  can't  yet  and  therefore 
have  to  be  washed  by  a  nurse.  I  never  knew  be- 
fore that  flowers  wielded  such  graceful  pens  and 
the  next  time  I  go  into  the  garden — which  I  hope 
will  be  this  year — I  shall  walk  up  and  down  the 
borders  with  a  new  respect  for  them. 

The  Invalid's  Friend  has  served  its  purpose 
wonderfully.  I  have  read  it  three  times  with 
delight.  It  has  made  all  its  rivals  on  my  table 
here  look  very  foolish — the  Nineteenth  Century 
is  conscious,  beside  it,  of  being  too  wordy,  and 
Blackzvood's  of  being  without  method,  and  the 
Cornhill  of  coming  out  too  often,  with  a  vulgar 
frequency,  and  the  Strand  of  being  too  serious. 

I  am  very  proud  of  having  a  niece  who  is  also 
such  an  editor.  The  only  reason  in  the  world 
why  I  don't  want  to  get  well  instantly  is  because 

[■19] 


VKRF.NA    IN    THE    MIDST 


I  want  to  read   the  next  number. — Your  affec- 
tionate and  grateful  aunt.  Verena,  B.I. 

{Beguiled  Invalid) 

LXV 

JosEY  Raby  to  Verena  Raby 

Dearest  of  Aunts, — Now  you  are  up  to 
writing  letters,  I  do  wish  you  would  send  a  line 
to  father  to  try  and  make  him  more  reasonable. 
He  actually  takes  up  the  line  that  no  girl  should 
marry  under  the  age  of  twenty-one  and  then  not 
before  she  has  known  the  man  for  a  year.  Just 
think  of  being  so  out-of-date  as  that!  And  he 
is  so  sensible  in  almost  every  other  way,  except 
about  ices. 

There  are  some  men  of  course  who  need  time 
for  knowing,  but  Vincent  is  not  one  of  them.  I 
feel  that  I  have  known  him  all  my  life,  although 
it  is  really  only  two  months,  but  then  he  is  so 
simple  and  open.  If  he  weren't,  he  wouldn't  call 
me  his  Sphinx,  would  he"?  For  there  is  nothing 
mysterious  about  me  really. 

Don't  you  think  that  our  first  duty  is  to  our- 
selves and  that  the  fulfilment  of  ourselves  is  sa- 
[120] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


cred?  I  do,  and  I  can  fulfil  myself  onl)^  by 
marrying  Vincent.  Do,  do  help  me! — Your 
loving  J- 

LXVI 

Verena  Raby  to  Josey   Raby 

My  Dear  Josey, — I  am  sorry  for  all  your 
perplexities;  but  I  can't  offer  any  help.  Your 
father  probably  knows  best,  but  even  if  he  doesn't, 
he  must  be  considered  too,  because  he  is  your  fa- 
ther and  5^ou  are  a  child.  Besides,  I  find  myself 
agreeing  with  what  he  sa3^s.  Since  you  have  asked 
my  advice  5'ou  must  listen  to  it,  and  my  advice  is 
to  obe)^  your  father  and  tell  Vincent  that  you  in- 
tend to  do  so.  Your  father  has  been  very  under- 
standing. He  has  not  forbidden  you  to  see  Vin- 
cent at  all,  as  many  fathers  would  have  done;  he 
has  merely  said  that  there  are  certain  rules  be- 
tween you  and  him  which  must  be  respected.  I 
think  he  is  right,  for  two  reasons.  One  because 
it  is  his  house  and  he  must  be  the  head  of  it,  and 
the  other  because  you  would  be  losing  such  a  lot 
of  your  young  life  if  you  had  your  way  and  mar- 
ried now.    Girls  should  be  engaged ;  women  mar- 

[121] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


ried.  To  leave  school  and  come  into  a  world  such 
as  yours  and  then  miss  all  the  fun  of  it  between 
your  age  and  twenty-one,  is  to  be  very  foolish. 
It  is  throwing  away  a  very  delightful  freedom. 

Another  thing — don't  you  owe  anything  to 
your  father?  You  say  that  our  first  duty  is  to 
ourselves.  I  am  not  sure  that  we  can  always  sep- 
arate ourselves.  Very  often,  and  usually  while 
we  are  living  under  other  people's  roofs  and  tak- 
ing other  people's  money,  we  are  not  ourselves  but 
a  blending  of  ourselves  and  themselves.  Aren't 
you  and  your  father  a  little  bit  mixed  up  like 
that*?  Isn't  he  entitled  a  little  longer  to  the  com- 
pany of  the  daughter  he  is  so  fond  of?  Think 
about  it  from  his  point  of  view. — Your  loving 

Aunt  V. 

LXVII 

Vincent  Frank  to  Josey  Raby 

JosEY  Pet, — My  own  sphinxling,  I  adore 
having  your  letters,  but  don't  you  think  it  might 
be  best  to  put  all  three  or  four  each  day  into  one 
envelope  and  post  them.  With  special  messengers 
so  constantly  coming,  the  fellows  here  get  to  sus- 
[122] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


pect  things  and  are  so  poisonously  funny  about  it. 
There  is  no  chaff  I  wouldn't  stand  so  long  as  you 
loved  me,  but  now  and  then  too  much  chipping 
gets  on  one's  nerves,  darling,  I  shall  be  at  the 
Pic.  on  Saturday  at  7.5  and  have  taken  our  usual 
table. — Yours  ever,  Vin  Ordinaire 

LXVIII 

Sir  Smithfield  Mark  to  Bryan  Field 

My  Dear  Field, — By  a  most  extraordinary 
chance,  I  do  know  of  a  man  in  the  country — and 
the  desired  country  at  that — Herefordshire,  in 
fact.  He  is  a  Bart's  contemporary  and  a  very 
old  friend,  and  he  not  only  needs  a  holiday  but 
is  going  to  take  one  with  me.  Everything  is  ar- 
ranged. I  have  secured  him  by  holding  you  out 
as  the  best  possible  substitute.  I  am  grateful  to 
you  for  writing  to  me,  for  it  is  too  long  since  we 
went  away  together  and  too  long  since  I  threw  a 
fly  in  Sutherland,  where  we  are  going. 

Communicate  with  him  direct:  Sinclair  Fergu- 
son, Kington,  Herefordshire. — I  am,  yours  sin- 
cerely, Smithfield  Mark 

[123] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


LXIX 

Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Aunt, — You  will  remember  my 
failure  to  establish  a  business-man's  cinema  in  the 
City.  I  may  have  been  discouraged  but  I  was  not 
dismayed,  because  I  am  convinced  that  there  is 
still  an  enormous  field  for  picture  palaces  and 
that  the  industry  will  increase  rather  than  decay. 
I  have  nov/  hit  upon  another  and  more  practicable 
scheme  and  that  is  to  build  picture  pr.laces  just 
inside  the  great  London  termini.  The  idea  came 
to  me  while  waiting  at  Paddington  the  other  day 
after  just  missing  my  train.  The  next  train  was 
not  for  two  hours,  and  meanwhile  I  had  nothing 
to  do.  The  thing  to  remember  is  that  every  day 
crowds  of  people  are  in  the  same  position  as  mine, 
while  there  are  countless  others  with  time  to  kill 
for  different  reasons.  If  a  cinema  theatre  were 
adjacent,  with  a  continuous  performance,  it  could 
not  but  be  a  very  popular  boon  and  should  pay 
handsomely.  Even  the  staff  would  probably  often 
steal  a  few  minutes  there;  I  don't  mean  the  sta- 
tion-master, but  certainly  the  porters,  and  the  in- 

[124] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


habitants  of  the  neighbourhood  would  come  too. 

All  that  is  needed  is  to  obtain  permission  from 
the  various  Railway  Companies  to  erect  the  build- 
ings on  their  premises  and  then  collect  the  capital; 
a  mere  trifle  would  be  needed,  because  the  site 
would  be  either  free,  or  negligibly  cheap.  If  you 
agree,  would  you  invest,  say,  £1000  in  it"? 

If  I  do  not  mention  Hazel  it  is  not  because  I 
have  ceased  to  love  her,  but  because  I  have  noth- 
ing to  report.  I  wish  she  could  be  got  away  from 
her  father,  whose  cynical  influence  is  bad  for  her. 
Detached,  she  might  soon  come  to  see  things  more 
romantically  and  then  would  be  my  chance. — I 
am,  yours  sincerely,        Horace  Mun-Brown 

LXX 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  I  am  deeply  interested  in  your  de- 
sire to  spend  money  at  once,  while  living.  Per- 
sonally, I  expect  you  do  a  great  deal  more  with 
it  than  you  know,  or  at  any  rate  than  you  led  me 
to  understand.  I  happen  to  be  acquainted  with 
your  character. 

The  question  is,  are  you  strong  enough  to  gq 

[125] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


into  this  matter'? — for  the  best  almsgiving,  I  take 
it,  is  that  which  has  not  been  asked,  but  comes 
unexpectedly,  dropping  like  gentle  dew  from  a 
clear  sky;  and  this  needs  imagination  and  the 
willingness  to  enter  into  all  kinds  of  investigating 
trouble.  It  is  in  essence  the  very  antithesis  of 
facile  cheque-writing;  but  so  irksome,  and  unlock- 
ing so  much  distress  and  squalor,  that  most  of  us 
shy  at  it  and  reach  for  the  cheque-book  again  in 
self-defence.  My  friend  Pagnell,  who  is  all  logic, 
insists  that  philanthropists  are  of  necessity  busy- 
bodies,  and  mischievously  self-indulgent  ones  too, 
and  that  the  broken  and  the  helpless  should  go  to 
the  wall.  That,  he  holds,  is  Nature's  plan,  which 
meddling  man  disturbs  and  frustrates.  But  the 
English  character  is  not  sufficiently  scientifically 
de-sentimentalized  for  that. 

One  of  the  things  that  I  should  like  to  see  done 
with  money  is  to  reform  education.  This  you 
could  easily  do  at  a  very  trifling  cost,  at  once, — 
and  have  the  fun  of  watching  it  go  on — by  en- 
dowing certain  experiments  in  your  own  village. 
If  they  were  successful  there,  their  fame  would  be 
noised  abroad  and  others  would  copy  and  grad- 
ually the  seed  would  fructify.    The  smallness  of 

[126] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


the  seed  never  matters.  The  interest  on  a  thou- 
sand pounds  would  do  it — fifty  pounds  a  year  to 
an  associate  teacher  whose  duty  it  was  to  fit  the 
children  for  the  world  they  are  to  live  in.  Read- 
ing, writing  and  arithmetic  would  go  on  as  usual, 
but  concurrently  with  them  there  would  be  in- 
struction in  life :  directed  chiefly  at  the  girls,  who 
are  to  be  the  wives  and  mothers  and  home  up- 
holders of  the  future.  If  the  hand  that  rocks  the 
cradle  rules  the  world,  the  hand  should  be  better 
trained.  One  of  the  first  things  to  be  taught  is 
the  amount  of  tea  required  in  a  tea-pot.  The  old 
story  about  the  wealth  of  mustard-makers  being 
derived  from  our  wastefulness  with  their  com- 
modity is  probably  far  more  true  of  the  wealth  of 
tea-merchants. 

The  difficulty  would  be  to  find  the  teacher. 
That  always  is  the  difficulty — finding  the  right 
person  to  carry  out  one's  ideas.  And,  imagina- 
tion being  the  rarest  quality  in  human  nature,  the 
difficulty  is  not  likely  to  decrease.  The  best  way 
would  be  to  interest  some  cultured  and  well-to-do 
resident  to  take  it  on — some  one  like  your  Mrs. 
Carlyon — but  then  you  would  be  up  against  the 
village  schoolmaster,  who,  not  having  any  imagi- 

[127] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


nation,  would  resent  her  rival  influence,  and  so 
the  scheme  would  end  where  so  many  others 
equally  sensible  have  ended;  in  the  realm  where, 
I  am  told,  the  battles  of  the  future  are  to  be 
fought — in  the  air. 

One  of  the  reasons  why  progress  is  so  piece- 
meal is  that  the  thinkers  have  to  delegate,  whereas 
it  is  usually  only  the  man  that  thought  of  a  thing 
who  is  really  capable  of  carrying  it  out.  We  saw 
enough  of  that  in  the  War,  where  m^ost  of  the 
muddles  and  scandals  were  the  result  of  delega- 
tion ;  and  most  of  them,  for  that  reason,  were  un- 
avoidable. R.  H. 

To-day's  poem : — 

O  World,  be  nobler,  for  her  sake! 

If  she  but  knew  thee  what  thou  art, 

What  wrongs  are  borne,  what  deeds  afe  done 

In  thee,  beneath  thy  daily  sun, 

Know'st  thou  not  that  her  tender  heart 

For  pain  and  very  shame  would  break? 

O  World,  be  nobler,  for  her  sake ! 

LXXI 

Antoinette  Rossiter  to  her  Mother 

Dearest  Mummie, — A  man  has  been  here  to 
cut  wood  and  we  watched  him.     He  said  that 

[128] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


every  time  the  clock  ticks  some  one  dies  and  some 
one  is  born.  He  said  that  the  best  food  for  rab- 
bits is  Hog-weed  and  he  is  going  to  give  us  two 
baby  rabbits.  He  said  that  jays  suck  pheasant's 
eggs.  I  can't  remember  anything  else,  but  he  is 
one  of  the  nicest  men  who  have  ever  been  here. 
Oh  yes,  he  said  that  when  he  was  a  boy  he  and  the 
other  boys  used  to  put  little  teeny-weeny  frogs 
on  their  tongues  and  make  them  jump  down  their 
froats,  but  don't  be  alarmed,  I  don't  mean  to  try 
this,  not  till  we  see  what  happens  to  Cyril.  Do 
come  home  soon. — Your  lovingest  Tony. 

X   X    X    X    X 
XXX 

Love  to  Lobbie. 


LXXII 

Roy  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — It  is  extraordinary  how 
things  happen  for  the  best,  and  I  am  sure  that  I 
am  being  looked  after  by  fate  in  some  strange 
particular  way.  I  never  have  gone  in  much  for 
religion,  but  that  there  is  a  kind  of  guardian  spirit 

[129] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


for  people  who  behave  decently  I  am  convinced. 
You  remember  about  Trixie'?  Well,  for  quite  a 
long  time  I  was  heart-broken  and  couldn't  enjoy 
food  or  anything.  But  I  see  now  that  it  had  to 
happen,  it  was  all  done  for  my  good,  because  it 
gave  me  more  depth  and  maturity  so  as  to  be 
ready  to  meet  Stella  on  level  terms. 

Stella  is  the  loveliest  girl  you  ever  saw  and 
quite  the  best  partner  I  have  yet  danced  with, 
almost  my  own  height  and  so  extraordinarily  light 
and  supple  without  being  too  thin.  She  also  has 
a  tremendous  sense  of  humour,  which  I  consider 
most  important  in  a  perfect  marriage.  Lots  of 
marriages,  I  am  convinced,  have  gone  wrong  be- 
cause the  husband  and  wife  had  different  ideas  of 
a  joke.  Poor  mother,  for  instance,  never  sees  that 
father  is  pulling  her  leg,  and  it  makes  her  queru- 
lous where  she  ought  to  laugh. 

I  wish  I  could  bring  Stella  to  see  you.  She 
sings  divinely  and  can  play  all  the  latest  things 
by  ear  after  hearing  them  only  once;  which  is,  I 
think,  a  wonderful  gift  and  makes  her  the  life  and 
soul  of  parties.  She  would  do  you  a  world  of 
good.  On  a  houseboat  at  Hampton  last  week-end 
she  never  stopped.    It  was  smashing. 

[130] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


Her  people  are  very  well  off,  her  father  being 
on  the  Stock  Exchange.  They  live  at  Wimbledon 
and  have  a  full-sized  table.  Do  write  and  send 
me  your  congratulations.  I  have  not  seen  her 
father  yet,  but  my  idea  is  to  make  him  take  to 
me  so  much  that  he  finds  a  place  for  me  in  his 
office.  As  there  are  no  sons,  he  will  probably 
want  some  one  to  carry  on  the  business  and  I 
don't  doubt  my  ability  to  pick  up  the  threads 
very  quickly.  I  wish  it  was  Lloyd's,  because  I 
am  told  that  is  child's  play,  but  I  don't  doubt  I 
could  cut  a  figure  on  the  Stock  Exchange  too. 

Stella  has  a  retrousse  nose  and  the  most  ador- 
able smile.  We  have  thousands  of  things  in  com- 
mon, besides  a  love  of  dancing.  She  says  she 
doesn't  want  an  engagement  ring,  she  would 
much  rather  have  a  deer-hound,  so  I  am  trying  to 
get  one.  I  wonder  if  anybody  breeds  them  in  your 
neighbourhood? 

Father  wants  me  to  go  to  Oxford,  just  as  if 
there  had  been  no  War,  but  I  don't  feel  that  I 
could  possibly  endure  the  restrictions  there.  Be- 
sides, what  would  Stella  do?  During  the  War 
she  worked  too,  for  all  kinds  of  Charities.  She 
was  splendid.    When  you  feel  well  enough,  you 

[131] 


VKRENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


must  let  me  bring  her  down  to  play  and  sing  to 
you. — Your  affectionate  nephew,  Roy 

LXXIII 
Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  Richard,  —  Some  of  your  special 
privileges  seem  to  be  coming  my  way,  for  I 
am  now  largely  occupied  in  writing  letters  of 
counsel,  chiefly  to  nephews  and  nieces  in  whom 
the  fever  of  love  burns  or  does  not  burn.  Theo- 
dore's girl  is  the  last — so  very  much  a  child  of 
the  moment  as  to  think  that  wanting  a  thing  and 
having  it  should  be  synonymous.  I  am  feeling 
very  grateful  I  am  not  a  mother  and  I  felicitate 
with  you  on  your  non-paternity.  Parents  just 
now  are  anything  but  enviable.  None  the  less.  .  .  . 

It's  funny  how  the  young  people  come  to  me 
for  help,  just  as  though  I  were  a  flitting  Cupid 
instead  of  a  weary  stationary  horizontal  middle- 
aged  female,  whose  only  traffic  in  the  emotions 
occurred  in  the  dim  and  distant  past  and  is  for 
ever  buried. — Good  night,  V. 

[132] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


LXXIV 

Nicholas  Devose  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Serena, — If  I  may  call  you  again 
by  that  name,  which  to  me,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, is  sacred  still — I  have  only  just  had,  from 
my  sister,  the  news  of  your  illness,  having  in  this 
far  spot  few  letters  from  home,  and  I  write  at 
once  to  say  that  I  am  deeply  grieved  and  hope 
that  already  you  are  better. 

If  you  can  bring  yourself  to  write,  or  to  send 
a  message  by  another  hand,  I  implore  you  to  do 
so.  You  may  think  it  hard  that  it  needed  a 
serious  injury  to  occur  to  you  before  I  wrote 
again,  but  that  would  not  necessarily  convict  me 
of  callousness.  I  swear  to  you,  Serena,  that  not 
a  day  has  passed  without  my  thinking  of  you — 
and  always  with  the  tenderest  devotion  to  you 
and  always  with  self-reproach  and  regret  that,  so 
largel)^  through  my  fault,  or,  even  more,  my  own 
impossible  temperament,  your  life  may  have  been 
circumscribed  and  rendered  less  happy. 

I  know,  through  various  channels,  certain 
things  about  your  life  to-day,  but  of  course  only 

[133] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


externals.  I  know,  for  instance,  that  you  have 
not  married;  but  whether  that  is  because  of  me 
(as  my  own  singleness  is  certainly  associated  with 
you,  or  rather  with  us),  I  do  not  know.  I  know 
by  how  many  years  you  are  my  junior,  and  I  am 
forty-nine  next  week.  If  you  are  conscious  of 
loneliness  and  it  is  my  influence  that  has  kept 
you  from  marrying,  I  am  sorry;  but  there  are 
worse  things  than  celibacy  and  it  is  probable 
that  both  of  us  are  best  suited  to  that  state.  I 
certainly  am.  The  common  notion  that  every 
one  ought  to  marry  is  as  wrong-headed  as  that 
every  one  ought  to  be  an  employer  of  labour. 
Very  few  persons  are  really  fitted  to  live 
intimately  with  others;  and  the  senseless  heroic 
way  in  which  the  effort  is  made  or  the  com- 
promise sustained  is  among  the  chief  of  those 
human  tragedies  which  must  most  entertain  the 
ironical  gods  peering  through  the  opera-glasses  of 
Heaven. 

I  must  not  suggest  too  much  melancholy.  I 
don't  pretend  that  life  has  nothing  in  it  but  wist- 
ful memories  and  regrets.  On  the  contrary,  I 
taste  many  moments  of  pleasure.  But — even 
while  enjoying  my  own  somewhat  anti-social  na- 

[134] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


ture — I  should,  were  I  asked  to  stand  as  fairy 
godfather  beside  cradles,  wish  for  no  child  a 
sufficient  income  to  indulge  impulses,  nor  too  em- 
phatic a  desire  to  be  sincere,  nor,  above  all,  any 
hypertrophied  fastidiousness.  In  a  world  con- 
structed not  for  units  but  for  millions,  such  gifts 
must  necessarily  isolate  their  possessor. 

When  the  War  broke  out  I  was  in  Korea. 
Since  last  we  met  I  have  been  all  over  the  world 
and  at  the  present  moment  am  in  Fez.  I  have 
thousands  of  sketches  stored  away,  some  of  which 
might  be  worth  showing,  but  I  can't  bring  myself 
to  the  task  of  selection  and  all  the  other  arrange- 
ments; I  can't  sometimes  bear  the  thought  that 
anyone  else  should  see  them,  so  you  will  gather 
that  I  am  very  little  more  reasonable  than  of  old 
and  probably  even  less  fitted  to  take  a  place  in 
the  daily  world. 

If  it  would  be  any  kind  of  pleasure  to  you  to 
see  me — if  I  could  help  you  in  any  way — you 
have  but  to  let  me  know.  I  shall  be  in  Madrid, 
at  the  Grand  Hotel,  till  the  end  of  next  month 
and  will  do  as  you  tell  me.  N.  D. 


[135] 


VKRKNA    IN    THE    MIDST 


LXXV 

JosEY  Raby  to  Vincent  Frank 

Darling  Vin., — Every  one  is  against  me  and 
therefore  I  must  act  alone.  Will  you  be  at 
Euston  with  two  tickets  on  Saturday  evening 
and  we  will  be  married  in  Scotland.  It  is  the 
only  way.  After  I  am  married  they  will  all 
understand  and  be  reasonable. 

If  you  would  rather  fly  to  Scotland,  let  me 
know  and  I  will  meet  you  anywhere. 

I  have  got  a  wedding  ring. — Your  devoted 

J. 


LXXVI 

Vincent  Frank  to  Josey  Raby 

[  Telegra?n  ] 

Impossible.    Writing.  Vincent. 


[136] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


LXXVII 
Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Verena,  to  return  to  the  great 
money  problem,  I  think  you  ought  to  know  that 
the  papers  print  particulars  of  the  will  of  a 
Hastings  innkeeper  who  set  apart  the  interest  on 
£300  for  an  annual  supper  to  sixty  Hastings 
newsboys.  And  a  little  while  ago  I  cut  from 
the  Times  a  will  in  which  the  testator,  a  fell- 
monger  and  a  gunner,  killed  during  the  War,  left 
"£1000  in  trust  during  the  life  of  his  wife  to 
apply  the  income  for  a  treat  for  the  children  of 
the  Chelsea  and  District  Schools,  Banstead,  such 
treat  to  consist  of  sweets,  strawberries,  or  a  visit 
to  the  pantomime,  and  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a 
surprise." 

Well,  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  arranging 
for  little  things  like  that.  All  you  want  is  a 
good  almoner  and  perhaps  Miss  Power  would 
take  the  post.  And  here  again  you  could  see 
the  fun  going  on,  which  the  dead  cannot.  At  least 
we  used  to  think  they  couldn't,  but  the  evidence 
on  the  other  side  is  accumulating.     There  is  a 

[137] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


conspiracy  afoot  to  make  us  think  that  the  dead 
"carry  on"  too  much  as  we  do. 

All  you  need  is  to  ask  yourself  which  kind 
of  worker  is  least  rewarded,  or  you  are  most 
sorry  for,  and  go  ahead.  Lamb's  friend,  James 
White,  would  have  chosen  chimney-sweeps.  The 
late  landlord  of  the  Royal  Oak  at  Hastings  would 
have  replied  "Newsboys."  Miss  Rhoda  Brough- 
ton  would  reply,  "Overworked  horses."  On  my 
own  list  would  occur  railway  porters.  Also  com- 
positors. And  what  about  the  little  girls  who 
carry  gentlemen's  new  garments  all  about  Savile 
Row  and  the  tailors'  quarters — is  anything  done 
for  them?  And  the  window-cleaners — they  can't 
have  much  fun.  And  oyster-openers — what  a  life ! 
And  carpet-beaters — Heavens!  And  the  little 
telegraph  girls,  in  couples,  with  the  grubby  hands. 
No,  the  list  would  not  be  hard  to  compile. 

There  are  possibilities  of  social  regeneration  in 
it,  too.  Certain  horrible  imperfections — due  to 
haste  and  false  economy  and  a  want  of  thorough- 
ness— are  allowed  year  after  year  to  persist,  to 
the  serious  impairing  of  the  nation's  nerves,  which 
might  be  removed,  or  at  any  rate  reduced  in 
number,  if  some  warm-hearted  living  hand,  like 

[138] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


yours  nov/,  or  wise  dead  hand,  like  yours  in  the 
distant  future,  were  outstretched.  For  example, 
a  legacy  of  a  thousand  pounds  would  not  be 
thrown  away  if  the  interest  on  it  were  offered 
every  year  as  a  prize  to  the  maker  of  chests-of- 
drawers  which  would  open  most  easily,  or  the 
maker  of  looking-glasses  which  remained  at  the 
desired  angle  without  having  to  be  wedged.  The 
details  would  have  to  be  worked  out,  perhaps 
through  some  furniture  trade  paper,  but  what  a 
heightening  of  effort  and  what  a  saving  of  temper 
might  result !  And  if  a  prize  were  offered  to  the 
firm  of  haberdashers  whose  buttons  were  most 
securely  sewn  on,  what  a  wave  of  comfort  might 
be  started !  I  bought  some  soft  collars  at  a  first- 
class  shop  only  last  week  and  the  buttons  were 
all  loose  and  some  of  the  button-holes  were  too 
small;  and  it  was  I  who  suffered,  not  the  haber- 
dasher. All  he  did  v/as  to  spread  his  hands  and 
complain  about  post-war  carelessness;  whereas  he 
might  just  as  well  have  supervised  the  things 
before  they  were  sent  home  as  not.  One  of  the 
most  infuriating  things  in  Peace-time  is  the  im- 
possibility of  punishing  anybody — except  oneself. 
The  world  is  so  prosperous  that  one  can't  touch 

[139] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


it.  Once  one  could  set  a  tradesman's  knees  shak- 
ing by  merely  expressing  the  intention  of  going 
elsewhere  in  future;  but  it  is  so  no  longer. 

But  this  is  dull  reading  for  Herefordshire. 
Are  not  these  lines  on  the  toilet  table  of  Marie 
Antoinette  poignant? — 

This  was  her  table,  these  her  trim  outspread 
Brushes  and  trays  and  porcelain  cups  for  red ; 
Here  sate  she,  while  her  women  tired  and  curled 
The  most  unhappy  head  in  all  the  world. 

R.  H. 

LXXVIII 

Vincent  Frank  to  Josey  Raby 

Darling  Josey, — I  hated  having  to  telegraph, 
but  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

You  know,  my  sweet,  that  part  of  a  man's  job 
is  to  look  after  his  woman,  and  I  can't  feel  that 
we  should  be  playing  the  game  to  go  off  like 
this.  The  more  I  think  about  it  the  more  con- 
vinced I  am  that  your  father  knows  v/hat  he  is 
saying  and  that  we  ought  to  wait.  After  all, 
impossible  though  they  are,  fathers  have  got  some 
kind  of  right  to  put  their  damned  old  trotters 
down  now  and  then,  and  especially  when  one  is 
[140] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


Still  eating  from  their  hands.  Besides,  I  don't 
know  from  day  to  day  what  I  am  going  to  do — 
the  whole  force  is  in  such  a  muddle  with  Winston 
tinkering  at  it — and  it  wouldn't  be  playing  the 
game  to  marry  now.  Three  years  isn't  such  a 
terrible  long  time  and  I  may  be  an  Air-Marshal 
by  then,  who  knows?  After  all,  we  must  live, 
and  I  haven't  got  a  bean  beyond  my  rotten  pay, 
and  if  jour  father  turns  us  down,  where  are  we*? 
Echo  answers  where.  Especially  as  my  people 
have  always  set  their  hearts  on  my  marrying 
that  red-headed  horror  I  showed  you  in  the  dis- 
tance at  the  Russian  Ballet. 

No,  my  angel  darling  sphinx,  the  sweetest  thing 
ever  made  or  dreamt  of,  let  us  be  sensible,  much 
as  it  goes  against  the  grain,  and  wait.  I've  got 
my  eye  on  an  absolutely  topping  engagement  ring 
in  Regent  Street,  which  shall  be  yours  in  a  fort- 
night from  to-day  and  we'll  have  the  most  gor- 
geous fun. — Your  grovelling  lover,  Vin. 


[141] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


LXXIX 

Clemency  Power  to  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Power 

Dear  Mother, — Things  go  along  very  com- 
fortably here,  so  comfortably  that  I  have  a  guilty 
feeling  that  I  am  not  earning  my  salary  at  all, 
but  spending  a  happy  visit.  I  now  have  a  weekly 
journey  to  Hereford  to  do  any  extra  shopping 
that  may  be  needed.  I  go  in  a  car  in  state  in  the 
morning  and  have  lunch  at  the  Green  Dragon 
while  the  things  are  being  packed  up. 

We  are  now  reading  nothing  but  the  Times 
and  Thackeray.  Having  just  finished  Esmond  we 
are  beginning  The  Virginians.  Miss  Raby's  father 
used  to  read  it  to  them  all  and  she  says  it  brings 
old  times  back :  but  I  should  prefer  a  change  now 
and  then.  I  find  that  I  can  manage  reading 
aloud  now  with  much  less  fatigue.  Don't  you 
think  girls  at  school  ought  to  be  trained  in  it? 

Did  I  tell  you  that  my  employer,  Mr.  Haven, 

had  a  wonderful  Solitaire  board  made  on  which 

Miss  Raby  can  play  while  lying  at  full  length  on 

her  back?    The  cards  have  holes  in  them  at  the 

[142] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


top,  and  are  hung  on  instead  of  being  laid  down, 
as  on  a  table.  She  is  able  to  sit  up  better  now  and 
can  use  a  table,  but  she  keeps  this  for  times 
when  she  is  tired.  Don't  you  think  it  is  the  very, 
thing  for  Grannie  9  I  think  I  shall  get  one  made 
and  send  it  to  her. 

I  have  even  taken  on  a  class  in  the  school — 
teaching  what  is  called  daily  sense.  It  is  the  idea 
of  my  employer,  Mr.  Haven,  and  consists  of 
showing  the  little  beggars  how  wrong  it  is,  for 
instance,  to  stand  on  the  middle  of  the  cane  seat 
of  a  chair,  instead  of  on  the  wooden  edges,  and 
things  like  that.  The  schoolmaster  was  very  ratty 
about  it  at  first,  but  I  did  some  of  my  blarneying 
and  now  he's  a  lamb. 

It's  wonderful  what  an  effect  a  little  brogue  has 
on  these  Sassenachs.  I  noticed  it  among  the 
soldiers  in  France,  officers  and  men,  and  it's  the 
same  here;  and  I  swear  I  never  really  try.  But 
doesn't  it  look  as  if  all  that  poor  old  Ireland 
needed  to  get  her  way  was  to  send  out  an  army 
of  Norahs  and  Bridgets  just  to  talk  and  so  con-* 
vince? 

Mr.  Haven  was  here  the  other  day.  He  is  very 
nice — tall,  with  very  soft  quite  white  hair,  pre- 

[143] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


maturely  white.     He  did  Miss  Raby  a  world  of 
good. — Your  dutiful  truant,  Clementia 

LXXX 

Verena  Raby  to  Nicholas  Devose 

Dear, — Your  letter  was  indeed  a  voice  from 
the  past — almost  from  the  grave.  It  was  kind  of 
you — it  was  like  you — to  write,  but  I  almost 
wish  you  had  not.  I  have  a  long  memory.  Come 
back  if  you  will,  but  do  not  come  here  without 
letting  me  first  know  that  you  are  in  England. 
But  for  your  own  sake  I  think  you  ought  to  re- 
turn now  and  then  and  challenge  criticism.  It 
is  not  fair,  either  to  yourself  or  to  others,  to  bury 
all  those  beautiful  pictures — for  I  am  sure  they 
are  beautiful.  You  could  not  do  anything  that 
was  not  beautiful  or  distinguished.  I  am  grow- 
ing stronger  every  day  and  the  doctors  are  hope- 
ful about  my  being  able  to  be  active  again,  al- 
most if  not  quite  as  before,  Nicholas,  believe 
this,  I  have  no  quarrel  with  fate,  my  life  has 
been  happier  far  than  not.  Serena 

[144] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


LXXXI 

JosEY   Raby  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Aunt  V., — This  is  just  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  all  over.  Vincent,  when  the  time  came, 
had  no  courage,  so  we  have  parted.  I  am  now 
unable  to  eat,  and  expect  and  hope  shortly  to  go 
into  a  decline  and  die.  This  is  a  world  of  the 
poorest  spirit  and  I  have  no  wish  to  continue  in 
it.    Think  of  me  always  as  your  loving  J. 

LXXXII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Well,  the  Great  Day  has  nearly  passed,  and 
Peace  having  now  been  formally  celebrated  we 
must  look  out  for  squalls.  I  saw  the  procession 
from  a  window,  the  owner  of  which — ^my  old 
friend  Mrs.  Kershaw — is  paying  her  rent  out  of 
the  money  she  made  by  letting  the  rest  of  the 
rooms.  The  caprice  which  decided  that  thf  route 
should  embrace  her  house  she  looks  upon  as  a 
direct  answer  to  prayer. 

[145] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


This  reminds  me  of  a  true  story,  told  me  by 
Mrs.  Northgate-Grove,  of  their  page-boy,  who  has 
been  very  carefully  brought  up.  At  the  local 
Peace  sports  he  was  entered  for  the  loo-yard 
race,  which,  he  said,  would  be  an  absolutely  sure 
thing  for  him,  provided  the  telegraph  boy  didn't 
run.  On  the  night  before  Peace  Day,  one  of  the 
family  passing  his  bedroom  door  heard  him  on  his 
knees  imploring  Divine  interference.  "O  God,  I 
pray  Thee  that  some  important  message  may  pre- 
vent the  telegraph  boy  from  being  able  to  com- 
pete." And  here's  another  nice  prayer  story.  A 
small  girl  was  overheard  by  her  mother  asking  God 
to  "Graciously  make  Rome  the  capital  of  Turkey." 
"But  why  do  you  pray  for  that,  darlmg?"  "Be- 
cause that's  how  I  put  it  in  the  examination  paper 
to-day." 

My  head  aches  from  this  overture  to  the  mil- 
lennium and  I  wish  we  were  a  year  on.  We 
are  settling  down  so  perilously  slowly.  In  fact, 
here  in  London  you  would  think  it  a  perpetual 
Bank  Holiday,  whereas  never  in  our  history  ought 
we  to  have  been  working  harder  than  since  the 
Armistice.  But  who  is  to  tell  the  people  how 
serious  it  all  is*?     The  statesmen's  "grave  warn- 

[146] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


ings"  and  the  newspapers'  constant  chidings 
equally  are  usually  cancelled  by  parallel  pages  of 
incitements  to  frivolity  and  expense.  England, 
for  the  greatest  nation  in  the  world,  can  be  singu- 
larly free  from  esprit  de  corps. 

But  these  are  gloomy  Peace-Day  reflections — 
possibly  due  to  the  fact  that  it  has  begun  to  rain 
and  the  fireworks  will  be  spoiled.  I  am  to  see 
them  from  a  roof  in  Park  Lane.  I  would  much 
rather  spend  the  evening  in  the  bosom  of  some 
nice  family  and  watch  a  baby  being  bathed  and 
put  to  bed.  That  is  the  prettiest  sight  in  the 
world;  but  I  don't  know  any  babies  any  more. 
Where  are  they  all?  Every  one — particularly  as 
he  gets  older  and  more  disposed  to  satuminity — 
should  know  a  baby  and  now  and  then  see  it 
being  put  to  bed. 

Well,  here  goes  for  the  fireworks. — Yours, 

R.  H. 

V.^. — Here  is  the  poem — foreshadowing  joys 

beyond  all  the  dreams  of  Oliver  Lodge : — 

Within  the  streams^  Pausanias  saith, 
That  down  Cocytus'  valley  flow, 
Girdling  the  grey  domain  of  Death, 
The  spectral  fishes  come  and  go; 

[147] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


The  ghosts  of  trout  flit  to  and  fro. 
Persephone,  fulfil  my  wish, 
And  grant  that  in  the  shades  below 
My  ghost  may  land  the  ghosts  of  fish! 


LXXXIII 
Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  Richard, — The  Peace  Celebrations  here, 
they  tell  me,  were  very  quiet.  I  am  glad  that 
they  are  over  at  last  and  we  can  now  all  be- 
gin ..    . 

Your  long  letter  about  the  benefactions  has 
given  me  plenty  to  think  about  for  some  days.  I 
had  not  thought  of  the  distribution  of  money  as 
being  so  full  of  amusing  possibilities:  almost  too 
full.  I  should  like  to  do  something  of  the  kind, 
but  to  confine  it  to  my  own  neighbourhood.  But 
then  one's  name  would  be  certain  to  leak  out,  and 
it  is  so  dreadful  to  be  thanked. 

Meanwhile,  I  wonder  what  you  will  think  of 
this  idea.  You  remember  Blanche  Povey  who 
used  to  live  at  Pangbourne?  She  married  a  doc- 
tor, a  very  nice  man,  Dr.  Else,  and  they  live  at 
Malvern.  Malvern  is  of  course  a  happy  hunt- 
ing ground   for  medical  men,   because   invalids 

[148] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


go  there,  mostly  rich  ones,  and  Dr.  Else  would 
be  doing  very  well,  only  for  an  infirmity.  The 
usual  one — he  drinks.  Blanche  tells  me  that  he 
is  getting  worse,  and  she  sees  nothing  but  disaster, 
and  every  time  he  goes  to  a  patient  she  fears  he 
may  have  over-stepped  the  mark  and  be  found 
out.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion, a  really  nice  man,  could  be  promised  anony- 
mously a^  good  sum  of  money  on  the  condition 
that  he  did  not  touch  alcohol  for  a  year,  much 
good  might  be  done.  How  does  it  strike  you^  Or 
am  I  becoming  that  hateful  thing,  a  busy-body? 
With  the  best  intentions,  no  doubt,  but  a  busy- 
body none  the  less. — Yours,  V. 

LXXXIV 

Roy  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 
Dear  Aunt  Verena, — You  must  not  think 
I'm  just  a  mere  rotter  when  I  tell  you  that  Stella 
and  I  have  parted.  I  know  it  looks  silly  to  be  in 
love  with  different  girls  so  often,  but  then  how  is 
one  to  discover  which  is  the  real  one  unless  one 
tries'?  Besides,  at  the  time  each  is  the  only  one.  I 
liked  Stella  in  many  ways  and  I  like  her  still, 
but  I  can  see  that  we  are  not  perfectly  suited. 

[149] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


Her  nature  makes  her  pick  up  new  friends,  chiefly 
men,  too  easily.  My  nature  is  not  like  that — I 
want  one  and  one  only.  Although  of  course  all 
this  is  Greek  to  you,  perhaps  you  can  sympathize. 

Margot  is  much  more  like  me  and  she  shares 
my  keenness  for  the  country.  Stella  hated  being 
away  from  London  or  excitement,  while  Margot 
loves  walking  among  the  heather  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  She  knows  a  fearful  lot  about  natural 
history  too,  and  only  yesterday,  when  we  were  on 
Box  Hill,  she  corrected  me  when  I  said  "There 
goes  a  wood-pigeon"  because  it  was  really  a  ring- 
dove.    Pretty  good,  that,  for  a  girl  I 

Don't  think  I  am  flirting  with  her,  because  it 
would  be  no  use  as  she  doesn't  intend  ever  to 
marry,  but  I  find  her  an  A.i.  pal  and  she  is  teach- 
ing me  lots  of  things  and  making  me  much  more 
observant.  You  would  like  her,  I'm  sure.  Her 
father  is  a  retired  brewer  with  oceans  of  Brad- 
buries,  who  wants  her  to  marry  a  cousin. — Your 
affectionate  nephew,  Roy 

P.S. — By  the  way,  I  saw  Josey  the  other  night 
at  the  Ritz,  with  a  very  gay  party.  She  is  the 
prettiest  little  thing. 

[i;o] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


LXXXV 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  your  question  about  the  tippling 
medico  is  not  an  easy  one  to  answer.  How 
could  he  take  money  if  he  is  a  man  with  any 
pride"?  The  thing  becomes  a  bribe,  and  bribes 
are  rather  offensive.  It  is  also  on  the  cards  that 
what  he  needs  to  pull  him  together  is  not  your 
money,  but  just  the  jolt  which  expulsion  from 
Malvern  would  give  him.  He  might  then  make 
an  effort  and  start  afresh  among  patients  who 
are  really  ill  and  in  need  of  a  doctor — panel 
work,  for  example.  Somehow,  I  don't  like  inter- 
ference in  this  kind  of  case.  There  is  always 
the  chance,  too,  that  teetotalism  might  make  him 
self-righteous  and  injure  his  character  in  other 
ways,  perhaps  more  undesirably  than  alcohol. 
That's  how  I  feel. 

On  the  other  hand,  expulsion  from  Malvern 
might  be  the  means  of  sending  him  wholly  to  the 
devil.  His  self-respect  would  be  lost  and  he 
would  sink  lower  and  lower.  In  this  case  the 
burden  would  fall  chiefly  on  his  wife,  for  with 

[■51] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


the  complete  loss  of  self-respect  there  can  come 
to  the  loser  a  certain  peace  of  mind;  the  struggle 
is  over;  whereas  she  would  suffer  in  two  ways — 
through  grief  and  through  poverty.  There's  no 
fairness  in  the  world.  The  Gods  may,  as  Edgar 
says,  be  just  in  making  of  our  pleasant  vices  whips 
to  scourge  us,  but  there  is  no  justice  in  including 
the  innocent  in  this  castigation — as  always  hap- 
pens. 

Your  best  way  is  to  be  ready  to  do  what  you 
can  for  the  wife. 

The  League  of  Nations  continues  to  engage 
attention ;  but  if  I  were  building  r.  house  I  should 
build  it  underground.  War  can  never  be  elimi- 
nated, and  it  is  certain  in  the  future  to  be  waged 
chiefly  in  the  air  and  without  warning.  It  is 
probably  high  time  to  turn  our  scaffold  poles 
into  spades. 

I  send  you  to-day  two  short  poems  from  the 
East.  Although  written  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  years  ago  by  Chinese  poets,  they  touch  the 
spot  to-day: — 

Sir,  from  my  dear  old  home  you  come. 
And  all  its  glories  you  can  name; 

Oh,  tell  me, — has  the  winter-p1um 

Yet  blossomed  o'er  the  window  framed 

[152] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


And  this: — 

You  ask  when  I'm  coming:  alas!  not  just  yet  .  .  . 
How  the  rain  filled  the  pools  on  that  night  when  we  met! 
Oh,  when  shall  we  ever  snuff  candles  again, 
And  recall  the  glad  hours  of  that  evening  of  rain? 

— What  is  the  special  charm  of  those*?    But  they 
haunt  me. — Good  night,  R.  H. 

LXXXVI 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  Richard, — You  were  very  good  to  reply 
so  quickly  about  poor  Blanche's  husband.  I  wish 
other  people  were  as  prompt  and  true  to  their 
word.  Dr.  Else  must  now,  I  suppose,  gang  the 
gait  that  the  stars  have  prescribed  for  him;  but 
of  course  one  has  to  remember  that  my  inter- 
ference might  be  also  in  the  stellar  programme. 

What  I  think  I  most  want  is  advice  as  to  the 
disposition  of  money  after  I  am  dead.  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  be  giving  it  to  my  own  needy  relations 
while  I  am  alive.  There  is  poor  Letitia,  for  one. 
That  husband  of  hers  does  nothing  to  add  to  his 
pension,  and  I  know  she  is  in  need  of  all  kinds  of 
things.     Roy  is  on  my  mind  too.     Not  that  his 

[>53] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


father  is  not  well  off,  but  fathers  and  sons  so 
often  fail  to  understand  each  other,  and  I  feci 
sure  that  the  boy,  if  helped  a  little,  might  be- 
come serious  and  develop  into  a  self-supporting 
man.  At  present  he  seems  to  do  nothing  but  fall 
in  and  out  of  love.  I  do  not  intend  to  blame 
him  for  that,  but  I  should  like  to  see  more  stabil- 
ity. He  sends  me  the  fullest  account  of  his  young 
ladies,  each  of  whom  is  perfect  in  turn.  How 
lovely  to  be  young  and  absurd  and  not  ashamed  of 
inconstancy  I  As  we  grow  older  we  acquire  such 
stupid  cautions.  V. 


LXXXVII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Look  here,  Verena,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say 
fulsome  things  about  my  promptness  and  so  forth. 
My  promptness  is  sheer  self-indulgence,  to  prevent 
the  bore  of  accumulated  correspondence.  As  for 
my  sagacity,  don't  be  so  sure  about  it.  You  may 
be  taken  in  by  my  brevity  and  the  confidence  of 
it  all;  and  I  may  be  utterly  wrong  about  every- 
thing. Why  not? 
[iM] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


Meanwhile,  I  have  to  remark  that  either  every- 
thing is  in  the  stellar  programme  (as  you  so 
happily  call  Fate)  or  nothing  is.  If  your  sug- 
gested interference  with  the  bibulous  proclivities 
of  Dr.  Else  is  written  there,  so  is  my  dissuasion 
of  you. 

If  you  are  bent  upon  some  form  of  corruption 
— bribing  people  into  virtue — why  not  try  it  with 
the  young  *?  There's  Roy,  as  you  say,  all  ready 
to  be  an  ass.  Might  not  he  allow  his  life  to  be 
regulated  by  the  promise  of  "A  Gift  for  a  Good 
Boy"?  Not  long  ago  some  rich  man  left  his 
son  a  fortune  on  condition  that  he  never  ap- 
proached within  a  certain  fixed  distance — several 
miles — of  Piccadilly  Circus.  It  got  into  the  pa- 
pers, I  remember.  How  it  can  be  known  whether 
or  not  these  conditions  are  observed  I  have  no 
notion.  I  trust  it  does  not  mean  ceaseless  tracking 
by  private  detectives.  But  there  is  always  a  cer- 
tain fascination  about  them  and  I  wonder  that 
dramatists  have  not  done  more  with  the  idea. 
Personally  I  think  I  hate  such  tampering  with 
destiny,  fortunate  or  ill,  but  you  must  do  as 
you  wish  with  your  own.  Besides,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, it  is  probably  as  much  your  fate  to  set  up 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


obstacles  to  Roy's  folly  as  it  is  his  to  be  foolish. 
We  only  play  at  free  will. 

What  is  at  the  moment  interesting  me  more 
than  such  metaphysics  is  the  problem :  Where  are 
the  scallops?  Once  upon  a  time  there  used  to 
be  Coquilles  St.  Jacques  twice  a  week,  but  my 
faithful  landlady  can't  get  scallops  anywhere  in 
these  days.  Why  do  things  suddenly  disappear 
like  this?  Is  it  because  the  scallop  is  a  cheap 
luxury,  and  the  fishmonger  wants  to  deal  only  in 
the  expensive  articles?  Whitechapel  (that  very 
sensible  country)  is  probably  full  of  scallops. 

Here's  another  Chinese  poem  which  gives  me 
great  joy:— 

Confusion  overwhelming  me,  as  in  a  drunken  dream, 
I  note  that  Spring  has  fled  and  wander  off  to  hill  and 

stream ; 
With  a  friendly  Buddhist  priest  I  seek  a  respite  from  the 

strife 
And  manifold  anomalies  which  go  to  make  up  life. 

Good  night,  my  dear,  R.  H. 


[156] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


LXXXVIII 

Roy  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — Thank  you  for  your 
very  kind  letter,  but  really  I  don't  think  I  am  in 
any  such  danger  as  you  seem  to  fear  (and  it's 
frightfully  decent  of  you  to  take  so  much  in- 
terest in  me  and  my  affairs)  because  I  always 
feel  that  I  am  a  kind  of  darling  of  the  gods. 
This  must  sound  horribly  conceited,  but  it  isn't 
as  bad  as  that  really.  It's  a  kind  of  faith  in  a 
higher  protection,  and  there's  no  harm  in  having 
that,  is  there?  Anyhow,  it  keeps  me  from  getting 
into  anything  like  very  serious  trouble.  I've  just 
had  another  example  of  this  watchfulness,  and 
it's  so  wonderful  that  I  must  tell  you  about  it. 

You  remember  about  Stella  and  how  glad  we 
were  that  it  was  all  over  with  her?  We  shouldn't 
have  suited  each  other  a  bit,  and  as  a  matter  of 
fact  I  think  she  would  have  dragged  me  down. 
Well,  after  not  seeing  her  for  weeks,  I  ran  into 
her  in  Bond  Street  on  Monday,  and  before  I 
knew  where  I  was  I'd  asked  her  to  dine  at  the 
Elysian  the  next  day.     That  was  yesterday.     It 

[•57] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


was  foolish,  I  know,  but  she  was  so  nice  and 
friendly  in  spite  of  it  all,  and  looked  rather  pa- 
thetic, and  I  always  think  one  should  be  as  kind 
as  possible — in  fact  I  learnt  it  from  you. 

Anyway,  I  did  it,  and  then  went  off  and  be- 
gan to  regret  it  at  once.  I  saw  what  an  ass  I 
had  been  to  re-open  friendship  with  her.  No 
one  should  ever  re-open  with  old  flames,  particu- 
larly when  they  haven't  played  the  game.  And 
a  meal  is  particularly  unwise,  because  there  may 
be  an  extra  glass  of  wine  and  then  where  are 
you*?  You  get  soft  and  melting  and  forget  what 
you  ought  to  remember,  and  all  the  fat  is  in  the 
fire  once  more,  and  before  you  know  where  you 
are  you  are  very  likely  engaged  again.  So  I 
went  about  kicking  myself  for  being  so  gentle  and 
impulsive,  and  had  a  rotten  night.  The  next  day 
I  couldn't  telephone  or  wire  to  call  it  off,  because 
I  hadn't  her  address,  and  the  wretched  dinner 
hung  over  me  like  the  sword  of  What's-his-name 
all  day.  Some  men  of  course  wouldn't  have  gone 
at  all,  but  I  hate  breaking  engagements. 

But — and  this  is  the  point — I  needn't  have 
worried  at  all;  and  after  such  a  wonderful  ex- 
perience of  watchfulness  over  me  I  shall  never 

[158] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


worry  again — I  should  be  a  monster  of  ingratitude 
if  I  did.  Because  all  the  time  my  guardian  angel 
was  working  for  me.  For  when  I  had  dressed 
and  started  out  to  get  to  the  Elysian  punctually, 
what  do  you  thinks — there  was  a  cordon  of  police 
all  round  it,  to  keep  me  and  every  one  away,  and 
thousands  of  people  looking  on.  The  restaurant 
had  caught  fire  and  was  gradually  but  surely 
burning  to  the  ground  I  Wasn't  that  an  extraor- 
dinary piece  of  luck,  or  rather,  not  luck  but  in- 
tervention? Of  course  it  was  no  good  looking 
for  Stella  among  such  a  crowd,  so  I  went  off  to 
the  Club  and  dined  alone. 

A  religious  fellow  would  make  a  tract  about  an 
experience  of  this  kind.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  be 
called  religious  exactly,  but  I  have  learnt  my 
lesson. 

I  am  still  having  bad  nights  thinking  about 
my  future. — Your  affectionate  nephew,       Roy 

LXXXIX 

Clemency  Power  to  Patricia  Power 

Pat,  my  Angel, — I  am  comfortable  enough 
here  but  I  wish  I  could  hail  an  aeroplane  and 

['59] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


drop  in  on  you  all  for  a  few  hours.  Some  day 
we  shall  be  able  to  do  impulsive  and  impossible 
things  like  that.  Miss  Raby  is  certainly  getting 
stronger,  and  could  very  well  do  her  own  reading, 
but  she  seems  to  like  me.  I  am  saving  money 
too — because  there's  nothing  to  do  with  it — and 
when  my  time  is  finished  you  must  come  to  Lon- 
don to  meet  me  and  I'll  stand  you  some  nice 
dinners  and  theatres  before  we  go  back. 

I  hope  I've  done  the  school  children  a  little 
good,  but  it's  heartbreaking  to  be  a  teacher,  be- 
cause one  is  fighting  nature  most  of  the  time. 
"Be  thoughtful,  be  good,  be  considerate,"  we  say, 
by  which  we  mean  "Behave  so  that  the  comfort 
of  older  people,  who  own  the  world,  may  be  as 
little  disturbed  as  possible."  But  oh  the  little 
poets  and  rebels  we  are  suppressing  and  perhaps 
destroying ! 

We're  all  women  here,  except  the  Doctor  and 
the  Rector,  who  are  both  old  and  oh  so  polite. 
The  Doctor's  wife,  Mrs.  Ferguson,  is  the  affable 
arch  type  who  tells  anecdotes  and  is  "quite  sure 
God  has  a  sense  of  humour" — you  know  the  kind 
I  mean.  The  Rector's  wife  is  soft  and  clinging 
and  full  of  superlative  praise.     But  I  mustn't 

[160] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


be  critical,  because  every  one  here  is  kind  and 
nice,  and  as  for  Miss  Raby  I'd  do  anything 
for  her. 

Give  Herself  my  love  and  say  I'll  write  very 
soon.  Adela  ought  to  write  to  me,  tell  her. — 
Your  devoted  Clem. 


xc 

Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt, — ^As  you  know,  there  is  great 
need  of  a  revival  in  all  kinds  of  home  industries 
if  we  are  to  regain,  or  rather  to  hold,  our  place 
among  the  nations,  and  I  am  far  too  keen  a 
political  economist  not  to  be  giving  much  thought 
to  the  matter.  What  I  am  at  the  moment  most 
interested  in  is  the  carpet  manufacture.  I  have 
heard  of  a  firm  in  the  West  of  England  which 
merely  needs  a  little  more  capital  to  do  the  most 
astonishing  things,  and  I  wonder  if  you  would 
advance  me  a  thousand  or  so  to  invest  in  it.  I 
ask  as  a  loan — no  speculation  at  all. 

Ohe  of  the  reasons  why  I  have  a  leaning  to- 
wards this  industry — apart  from  the  fact  that 

[16.] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


carpets  must  always  be  needed — is  that  the  other 
day  when  I  was  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum, 
looking  about  for  inspiration,  I  noticed  an  ancient 
rug,  hanging  on  the  wall,  which  represented  a 
map.  It  at  once  struck  mc  that  it  would  be  a 
first-class  notion  to  make  map  carpets  for  sale  in 
this  country.  Think  of  the  enormous  success 
that  a  carpet-map  of  the  Western  Front  would 
have  been  during  the  late  War.  Conversation 
need  never  have  faltered,  and  if  you  had  a  real 
soldier  to  tea  or  dinner  he  could  have  made  his 
story  extraordinarily  vivid  by  walking  about  the 
room  and  illustrating  the  various  positions.  Or 
take  a  carpet-map  of  Ireland — how  that  would 
help  in  our  understanding  of  the  Irish  question! 
In  nurseries  too,  the  carpet  could  teach  geography. 
Children  crawling  over  it  from  one  country  to  an- 
other could  get  a  most  astonishing  notion  of 
boundaries  and  so  forth. 

The  more  I  think  of  the  scheme,  the  more  I 
am  taken  by  it ;  and  I  hope,  dear  Aunt,  that  you 
will  see  eye  to  eye  with  me.  Trusting  that  you 
are  progressing  favourably  towards  a  complete 
recovery — I  am,  your  affectionate  nephew, 

Horace  Mun-Brown 

[162] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


P.S. — I  never  see  Hazel  now,  but  still  live  in 
hopes. 

XCI 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

My  Dear  Friend  and  Philosopher, — ^How 
wise  you  are !  On  paper.  When  I  meet  you 
and  see  your  dear  old  face  I  know  you  are  ca- 
pable of  quite  as  many  incautious  impulses  as 
most  of  us;  but  when  I  read  your  cool  counsels; 
and  generalizations  you  seem  to  assume  a  white 
beard  of  immense  proportions  and  to  be  superior 
to  all  human  temptations  or  foibles. 

Now,  tell  me,  don't  you  think  there  is  any 
way  in  which  a  little  money  might  help  to  get 
England  back  to  a  sense  of  orderliness  and  re- 
sponsibility again?  Nesta  and  I  have  been  won- 
dering if  lecturers  could  be  employed,  perhaps 
with  cinema  films,  to  excite  people  about  Eng- 
land— the  idea  of  England  as  the  country  that 
ought  to  set  a  good  example,  that  always  has 
led  and  should  lead  again.  A  kind  of  pictorial 
pageant  of  its  greatness.  Or  there  might  be  il- 
lustrated lives  of  its  greatest  men,  to  stimulate 

[163] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


the  ambition  of  the  young  and  their  parents. 
It  is  all  very  vague  in  my  mind,  but  don't  you 
think  there  is  something  in  it*?  The  Rector, 
I  confess,  is  very  cold.  He  says  that  what  is 
needed  is  more  faith,  more  piety,  and  anything 
that  I  could  do  to  that  end  would  be  the  best 
thing  of  all;  but  when  I  ask  him  how,  all  he 
can  suggest  is  a  new  peal  of  bells  here  and  a 
handsome  donation  to  the  spire  fund  of  the 
church  at  Bournemouth  where  he  was  before  he 
came  here,  which  was  left  unfinished.  Nesta  says 
that,  according  to  her  recollection,  Bournemouth 
has  too  many  spires  as  it  is.  I  know  you  are  usu- 
ally sarcastic  about  the  Church,  but  do  tell  me 
candidly  what  you  think. 

In  exchange  for  all  yours,  I  must  give  you 
the  last  verse  of  a  consolatory  poem  written  for 
me  by  a  young  sympathizer  aged  nine: — 

How  we  watch  the  feeble  flicker, 

Watch  the  face  so  wan ! 
Day  by  day  she  groweth  weaker, 

Soon  she  will  be  gone. 

Apropos  of  children — Nesta's  Lobbie  said  a 
rather  nice  thing  the  other  day.  There  was 
a  wonderful  sunset  and  she  went  out  into  the 

[164] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


garden  to  see  it.  Then  she  said — "Mother,  I 
can't  think  how  God  made  the  sky.  I  can  under- 
stand His  making  nuts" — here  she  rubbed  her 
thumb  and  finger  together  as  though  moulding 
something — "and  even  flowers.  But  the  sky — 
no!" — Your  grateful  V. 

XCII 
Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Verena,  you  have  hurt  me  this 
time.  I  never  thought  you  had  it  in  you  to  do 
so,  but  you  have.  You  tell  me  to  tell  you  some- 
thing "candidly."  Now,  when  have  I  ever  done 
anything  else*? 

As  for  the  Church,  I  don't  think  this  the  best 
time  to  give  it  spires.  It  is  not  architecturally 
that  it  needs  help,  and  I  never  thought  so  with 
more  conviction  than  when,  at  a  State  banquet 
the  other  night,  to  which  I  was  bidden,  I  saw  a 
Bishop  in  purple  evening  dress.  He  looked  an 
astonishingly  long  way  from  Bethlehem. 

As  for  the  cinema  scheme,  it  is  ingenious  and 
might  serve;  but  I  think  I  should  wait  a  little 
until   the   present   fermentation  subsides.      You 

['65] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


would  never  get  a  Picture  Palace  manager  to  put 
it  on  now,  when  every  one  is  thoughtless  and 
lavish  with  money  and  only  excitement  is  popu- 
lar. I  remember  seeing  an  Italian  cinema  au- 
dience go  wiM  over  a  film  about  Mameli,  who 
wrote  their  national  song  and  joined  Garibaldi; 
but  that  was  just  before  a  war — with  Turkey — 
and  not  after.  Before  a  war  you  can  do  wonders 
with  people;  but  after — no.  It  is  then  that  the 
big  men  are  needed. 

I  don't  often  send  you  anything  really  wicked, 
but  the  temptation  to-day  is  too  great  to  be 
resisted.  You  are  fond,  I  know,  of  those  lines 
by  T.  E.  Brown  called  "My  Garden."  Well,  in 
the  magazine  of  Dartmouth  Royal  Naval  College 
some  irreverent  imp  once  wrote  a  parody  which 
I  can  no  longer  keep  to  myself.  By  what  right 
an  embryonic  admiral  should  also  be  a  humorous 
poet  I  can't  determine;  but  there  is  no  logic  In 
life.    Here  is  his  mischief: — 

A  garden  is  a  loathsome  thing — eh,  what? 

Blight,  snail, 

Pea-weevil, 

Green-fly  such  a  lot ! 

My  handiest  tool 

Is  powerless,  yet  the  fool 

[1 66] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


(Next  door)  contends  that  slugs  are  not. 
Not  slugs !  in  gardens  !  when  the  eve  is  cool  ? 
Nay,  but  I  have  some  brine ; 
'Tis  very  sure  they  shall  not  walk  in  mine. 

— ^That  of  course  is  sacrilege,  and  I  haven't  the 
heart  to  add  anything  serious  to  it. 

Here's  a  nice  thing  said  recently  by  an  old 
French  general,  retired,  in  charge  of  the  Invalides 
Hospital.  "Heroes — yes;  a  hero  can  be  an  affair 
of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  but  it  takes  a  life-time 
to  make  an  honest  man." 

Morpheus  calls.  R.  H. 

XCIII 

Nicholas  Devose  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dearest  Serena, — I  rejoiced  to  have  your 
letter.  I  was  afraid  that  you  might  not  be  well 
enough  to  write;  I  was  afraid  that  5^ou  might 
not  wish  to  write.  I  am  on  my  way  back  and 
you  shall  know  when  I  reach  London.  I  will  do 
as  you  say :  you  would  be  wiser  than  I.  N. 


[167] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


XCIV 

Louisa  Parrish  to  Verena  PIaby 

My  Dear  Verena, — It  is  too  long  since  I 
wrote  to  you.  The  reason  is  that  the  trouble 
about  maids  has  been  so  constant  and  distressing. 
I  am  sure  that  there  could  not  be  a  house  where 
more  consideration  is  shown,  but  we  cannot  get 
an)^  to  stay.  I  don't  understand  it  in  the  least. 
I  have  even  offered  to  buy  a  gramophone  for  the 
kitchen,  but  it  is  useless.  I  brought  myself  to 
this  step  very  reluctantly,  because  some  of  the 
records  with  what  I  believe  is  called  "patter"  in 
them  are  so  vulgar,  and  too  many  of  the  songs 
too.  Our  last  cook  stayed  only  four  days  and 
vanished  in  the  night.  She  seemed  such  a  nice 
woman,  but  you  never  can  tell,  they  are  so  de- 
ceitful. When  we  came  down  in  the  morning  there 
was  a  note  on  the  kitchen  table  and  no  break- 
fast. She  had  actually  got  out  of  the  window 
after  we  had  gone  to  bed. 

I  now  have  one  coming  from  the  North  with 
an  excellent  character  but  she  wants  £45"  a  year. 
Isn't  it  monstrous?    The  housemaid  has  been  here 

[168] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


for  three  weeks,  but  I  wake  several  times  every 
night  and  fancy  I  hear  her  making  off.  Life 
would  be  hardly  worth  living,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, but  for  our  friends. 

I  hope  your  news  is  good.  My  own  constant 
ailment  does  not  show  any  improvement  and  if 
only  I  could  feel  any  confidence  about  the  house 
I  should  go  to  Buxton,  I  heard  from  a  visitor 
at  the  Vicarage  yesterday  of  another  case  of  spinal 
trouble  which  seems  very  like  your  own.  That 
too  was  the  result  of  a  fall.  It  was  many  years 
ago  and  the  poor  sufferer  is  still  helpless ;  but  we 
all  hope  better  things  for  you. — Your  sincerely 
loving  friend,  Louisa 

P.S. — My  brother  Claude  has  had  another 
stroke. 

xcv 

Antoinette  Rossiter  to  her  Mother 

Dearest  Mummie, — I  had  a  funny  dream  last 
night.  I  dreamt  about  you  and  me  going  to  see 
the  Queen  and  I  had  a  hole  in  my  stocking. 
The  Queen  didn't  see  the  hole  but  you  made  me 

[169] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


cross  by  drawing  attention  to  it  and  apologizing. 
I  said  to  the  Queen,  "I  suppose  you  never  wear 
the  same  stockings  again,  Queen  Mary,"  and  she 
said,  laughing,  "Oh,  yes,  I  do  but  you  mustn't 
call  me  Queen  Mary,  you  must  call  me  Ma'am." 
Wasn't  it  funny ^ 

When  you  come  home  you  will  find  new  cur- 
tains in  the  drawing-room  which  Daddy  has 
had  put  up  for  a  surprise  for  you.  I  oughtn't  to 
have  told  you,  but  you  must  pretend  you  didn't 
know  and  be  tremendously  excited.  My  cold  has 
gone.  I  used  four  handkerchiefs  a  day. — Your 
very  loving  Tony 

X  X  X   X  X 

XCVI 

Roy  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — I  am  feeling  very  run 
down  and  depressed,  because  my  star  has  set. 
What  I  mean  is  that  Margot  has  gone.  Her 
people  have  taken  a  place  in  Scotland  and  of 
course  she  had  to  go  too.  As  I  believe  I  told 
you,  she  never  intends  to  marry,  but  all  the 
same  she  was  a  jolly  good  sort  and  we  had  some 
[170] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


topping  walks  together.  We  used  to  go  to  the 
Zoo  too,  and  as  her  father  is  a  Fellow  all  the 
keepers  know  her  and  show  her  the  special  things. 
Being  cooped  up  in  London  is  rotten  and  I  won- 
dered if  I  might  come  to  you  for  a  few  days  for 
some  country  air  and  perhaps  cheer  you  up  a 
bit.  You  must  be  very  dull  lying  there  all  the 
time  with  nothing  but  women  about  you,  I 
should  be  out  most  of  the  da)^  and  I  daresay  there 
are  some  people  to  play  tennis  with  and  a  golf 
course  not  too  far  off.  Margot  has  been  to  Here- 
fordshire and  she  says  it's  ripping,  and  what  she 
doesn't  know  about  the  country  isn't  worth  know- 
ing. Of  course  if  all  this  bores  you,  you'll  say 
so,  won't  you? — Your  affectionate  nephew, 

Roy 

P.S. — I  haven't  seen  Stella  since  that  awful 
Elysian  business. 

XCVII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  I  have  to  confess  to  a  sad  failure. 
You  must  know  that  I  am  always  hoping  for  an 

[171] 


VKRENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


adventure  that  shall  be  worth  narrating  in  a 
letter  to  you,  and  sometimes  I  even  strive  for 
them.  My  latest  deliberate  flirtation  with  the 
Goddess  of  Chance  occurred  this  afternoon;  and 
being  deliberate  it  failed.  At  least  there  is 
nothing  in  it  for  the  immediate  and  sacred  pur- 
pose: but  one  never  knows  how  long  an  arm 
can  be. 

It  happened  this  way.  I  had  invited  Anna — 
you  know,  Fred  Distyn's  sister — to  a  matinee; 
and  she  was  to  meet  me  in  the  lobby  five  min- 
utes before  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  I  was  there 
even  earlier  and  stood  waiting  and  watching  the 
eager  faces  of  the  arriving  audience  for  fully  ten 
minutes  after  the  play  had  begun.  This  eager- 
ness to  be  inside  a  theatre  and  witness  rubbish  is 
(as  you  know)  a  terrible  commentary  on  life  and 
the  intellectual  resources  of  civilization;  but  that 
is  beside  the  point. 

Having  waited  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  then 
deposited  with  the  commissionaire  a  minutely- 
painted  word-portrait  of  Anna,  together  with  her 
ticket,  and  took  my  seat. 

When  the  first  Act  was  over  and  there  was 
still  no  Anna,  I  told  the  commissionaire  to  find 

[172] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


some  one  in  the  street  who  looked  as  though  a 
theatre  would  amuse  him — or,  if  need  be,  her — 
and  invite  him  or  her  to  occupy  the  empty  place. 

Now  could  one  set  a  better  trap  for  Fortune 
than  that? 

But  it  was  a  hopeless  fiasco.  Instead  of  play- 
ing the  Haroun  Al  Raschid  and  going  out  into  the 
highways  and  byways,  the  commissionaire  gave 
the  ticket  to  his  wife,  who  happened  to  be  calling 
on  him  for  some  of  his  Saturday  wages.  My  own 
fault,  of  course,  for  I  ought  to  have  gone  myself. 
One  should  never  delegate  the  privileges  of  ro- 
mance. 

Here  is  an  old  favourite,  for  a  change: — 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in ! 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 
Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add 
Jenny  kissed  me. 

I  suppose  you  know  that  the  Jcnn}^  of  this  poem 
was  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle*? — Your  devoted 

R.  H. 


[173] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


XCVIII 

Nicholas  Devose  to  Verena  Raby 

[  Telegram  ] 

Am  at  Garland's  Hotel,  tell  me  what  to  do. 

Nicholas 

XCIX 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Roy  Barrance 

Dear  Roy, — Aunt  Verena  asks  me  to  say  that 
she  will  be  delighted  if  you  will  come  for  a  few 
days  next  week,  but  she  warns  you  that  you  will 
find  things  very  slow  here.  We  are  a  small  party, 
the  liveliest  of  us  being  my  little  Lobbie,  whom 
I  don't  think  you  have  seen.  As  she  is  now  six, 
this  shows  that  you  have  neglected  your  kith  and 
kin.  If  you  care  for  fishing  you  had  better  bring 
your  rod,  as  the  Arrow  is  not  far  off.  And  I 
wish  you  would  go  to  that  shop  in  the  Haymarket 
just  above  the  Haymarket  Theatre  and  get  one  of 
those   glass   coffee   machines — medium   size.      I 

[174] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


should  also  like  a  biggish  box  of  Plasticine  for 

Lobbie. — Your  affectionate  cousin, 

Nesta 


Verena  Raby  to  Nicholas  Devose 

Dear, — I  have  thought  much  since  your  last 
letter  and  more  still  since  the  telegram  came. 
Please  do  not  come  yet.  I  could  not  bear  it. 
Old  as  the  rest  of  me  has  become,  all  that  ap- 
pertains to  you  is  preserved,  as  though  in  some 
heart-cell  apart,  and  as  fresh  as  yesterday.  I  am 
not  equal  to  the  emotion  of  seeing  you  just  yet, 
nor  am  I  sure  that  I  want  to.  The  you  that  I 
know  is  no  longer  the  you  that  others  see — ^he  is 
young  and  ambitious  and  often  masterful  and  yet 
with  such  strange  fits  of  misgiving.  But  I  should 
love  to  have  a  portfolio  of  your  sketches,  if  you 
could  trust  them  to  the  railway.  Choose  those 
that  you  think  the  best  or.  that  you  made  under  the 
happiest  conditions.  No,  let  there  be  one  or  two 
when  you  were  least  happy. 

Are  you  grey?    I  am.  Serena 

[175] 


VKRF.NA    IN    THE    MIDST 


CI 
Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  I  hope  that  this  heat  isn't  too  much 
for  you,  but  perhaps  your  circumambient  heights 
promote  a  breeze.  London  has  been  stifling.  The 
War  has  certainly  broken  down  many  of  our  old 
conventions.  Who,  even  in  the  hottest  summer, 
ever  before  saw  bathing  in  the  Trafalgar  Square 
fountains^  Or  stark  naked  boys  careering  round 
Gordon's  statue.  But  I  saw  them  to-day — a  score 
of  them — with  a  policeman  after  them ;  for  against 
bathing  there  is  a  law  to  break,  apparently.  The 
constable  did  not  run,  he  merely  advanced;  but 
they  scampered  before  him,  all  gleaming  in  the 
evening  sun,  dragging  their  scanty  clothes  be- 
hind them,  and  those  who  were  leading  paused 
now  and  then  to  get  a  leg  into  their  trousers, 
hesitated,  failed,  and  were  away  again.  It  is 
astonishing  how  little  space  can  intervene  between 
what  appears  to  be  a  sauntering  policeman  and 
a  naked  fleeing  boy.  This  constable  was  like 
Fate. 

I  once  read  somewhere  that  clever  women  al- 
[176] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


ways  tell  men  that  they  look  overworked.  Yes- 
terday I  made  the  discovery  of  a  form  of  words 
even  more  soothing  when  proceeding  from  femi- 
nine lips:  another  weapon  in  the  clever  woman's 
verbal  armoury — should  she  need  any  assistance 
that  way.  The  solicitous  phrase  "You  are  look- 
ing overworked,"  is  unction  perhaps  more  for  the 
young  than  the  middle-aged  and  elderly.  No 
young  man,  however  conscious  of  his  own  abys- 
mal laziness,  can  resist  it,  or  want  to  resist  it. 
But  the  maturer  man — the  man  to  whom  Father 
Time's  chief  gift  is  an  increase  of  girth — must 
be  differently  handled.  He  may  be  overworked, 
but  to  be  told  about  it,  however  seducingly,  does 
not  much  interest  him.  Besides  he  knows  when 
it  is  not  true:  when  what  looks  like  the  effect  of 
overwork  (supposing  the  lady  to  have  something 
to  go  upon)  is  reall}^  due  to  late  hours  or  a  glass 
too  many.  In  short,  he  is  a  little  too  old  for  any 
flattery  but  the  kind  of  flattery  he  is  not  too  old 
for.  Therefore  the  clever  woman,  in  dealing  with 
him,  must  do  otherwise.  Taking  him  by  the 
hand,  she  must  look  at  his  features  with  a  close 
and  careful  scrutiny  which,  although  it  is  as- 
sumed, can  be  extremely  comforting,   and  then 

[177] 


VERF.NA   IN    THE    MIDST 


say,  in  a  tone  almost  of  triumph,  "You're  getting 
thinner." 

Isn't  it  about  time  that  you  sent  me  another 
medical  report*?  Here  is  a  passage  in  Swift's 
letters  that  I  hit  upon  last  night : — 

"And  remember  that  riches  are  nine  parts  in 
ten  of  all  that  is  good  in  life,  and  health  is  the 
tenth;  drinking  coffee  comes  long  after,  and  yet 
it  is  the  eleventh;  but  without  the  two  former, 
you  cannot  drink  it  right." 

And  here  is  to-day's  poem : — 

If  on  a  Spring  night  I  went  by 
And  God  were  standing  there, 
What  is  the  prayer  that  I  would  cry 
To  Him  ?    This  is  the  prayer : 
O  Lord  of  Courage  grave, 
O  Master  of  this  night  of  Spring ! 
Make  firm  in  me  a  heart  too  brave 
To  ask  Thee  anything! 

Who  do  you  think  wrote  that^  It  is  a  very 
fine  specimen  of  what  I  call  "Novelists'  poetry" 
— the  poetry  which  men  known  for  their  prose 
and  romance  now  and  then  produce.  Most  of  them 
occasionally  try  their  hand,  and  often  very  inter- 
estingly. One  of  the  best  short  poems  in  the 
language  is  an  epitome  of  the  life  of  man  by 
Eden  Phillpotts.     Grant  Allen  wrote  some  re- 

[•78] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


markable  lines.  The  author  of  The  Children  of 
the  Ghetto  has  published  a  volume  of  his  verses 
which  is  full  of  arresting  things.  Thomas  Hardy, 
of  course,  has  become  poet  altogether,  and  Maurice 
Hewlett  seems  to  be  that  way  inclined.  But  still 
I  don't  tell  you  who  wrote  the  lines  just  quoted: 
John  Galsworthy.  R.  H. 

CII 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

My  Dear  Richard, — I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  immediate  need  is  to  get  my  will 
properly  fixed  up.  If  you  won't  accept  the  re- 
sponsibility of  distributing  money  according  to 
your  own  judgment  I  must  make  some  definite 
bequests.  I  calculate  that  after  relations  and 
friends  and  certain  dependants  are  provided  for 
or  remembered,  there  ought  to  be  as  much  as 
£50,000  to  leave  for  some  specific  useful  purpose. 
It  might  go  to  build  and  endow  alms-houses,  it 
might  form  a  benevolent  fund  of  some  kind. 
Please  concentrate  on  this  question,  even  though 
it  tends  towards  that  pernicious  evil  "interfer- 
ence." 

[179] 


VERF.NA    IN    THE    MIDST 


I  am  in  momentary  fear  of  losing  Miss  Power 
because  her  mother  has  been  ill ;  but  hope  for 
the  best.  I  don't  know  what  we  should  do  with- 
out her.  V. 


cm 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Now,  Verena,  you're  talking.  The  interest 
on  £5:0,000  at  five  per  cent,  with  income-tax  at 
present  rate  deducted,  would  be,  say,  £1750. 
Well,  you  can  do  lots  of  things  with  £1750  a 
year. 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  National  Art 
Collections  Fund*?  This  is  a  society  of  amateurs 
of  art  who  collect  money  in  order  to  acquire  for 
the  nation  pictures  and  drawings  and  sculptures 
which  the  nation  ought  not  to  miss  but  which  it 
has  no  official  means  of  purchasing.  For  although 
we  have  a  National  Gallery  of  the  highest  quality, 
the  Treasury  grant  for  buying  new  masterpieces 
for  it  is  so  small  that,  unless  private  enterprise 
assists,  everything  goes  to  America.  How  would 
you  like  your  £1750  a  year  to  assist  the  purchase 

[180] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


of  pictures  for  the  nation — whether  hung  in  Lon- 
don or  elsewhere — for  ever'? 

And  then  have  you  ever  heard  of  the  National 
Trust  for  the  Preservation  of  Places  of  Historic 
Interest  and  Natural  Beauty?  This  was  founded 
by  the  late  Octavia  Hill  with  the  purpose  of 
acquiring  for  the  nation,  for  ever,  beauty  spots 
and  open  spaces  and  old  comely  buildings.  Isn't 
that  a  good  and  humane  idea?  To  preserve  a 
piece  of  grass  land,  with  all  its  trees  intact,  in 
the  midst  of  a  new  building  estate  I  All  kinds 
of  parks  and  commons  and  hill-tops  are  now 
inviolate  through  the  activities  of  this  Society. 
Would  you  like  your  money  to  strengthen  their 
hands'?  No  one  with  money  to  spare  who  fol- 
lowed Octavia  Hill  could  go  wrong. 

That  is  enough  for  the  present;  but  I  will 
supply  further  hints. 

You  want  stories,  you  say.  Here  is  one  which 
was  told  5'esterday,  at  Mrs,  Beldham's,  by  a  very 
attractive  and  humorous  woman.  We  had  been 
talking  of  jewels;  apropos,  I  think,  of  Lady 
Crowborough's  pearl  necklace  which  she  took  off 
and  allowed  me  to  hold.  Nothing  more  exquisite 
than  the  temperature  and  texture  of  them  could  I 

[i8i] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


imagine ;  only  about  twenty-five  thousand  pounds' 
worth,  that's  all.  I  wonder  that  the  psychic 
quality  of  jewels  has  not  appealed  more  to  novel- 
ists, for  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  they  are 
curiously  sympathetic.  Pearls  in  particular,  which 
grow  the  liner  the  more  constantly  and  intimately 
they  are  worn  by  congenial  wearers,  but  which 
languish  and  decline  in  lustre  as  their  wearer  loses 
health,  and  worn  on  some  necks  refuse  to  glow 
and  shine  at  all.  I  can  see  a  Hawthorney  kind 
of  story  in  which  the  living  pearls  of  a  dead  mis- 
tress play  a  subtle  part. 

Anyway,  we  were  talking  about  precious  stones, 
and  this  Mrs.  Dee  told  us  her  hard  case.  For  she 
is  the  owner  of  some  of  the  most  beautiful  em- 
eralds that  exist  in  this  country:  the  owner,  but 
she  cannot  get  at  them.  They  belonged,  she  said, 
to  her  Aunt  Emily,  and  it  was  always  understood 
that  upon  the  death  of  that  estimable  and  ageing 
lady  they  were  to  descend  to  her.  It  was,  indeed, 
in  the  will.  And  so  they  would  have  done,  had 
not  the  too  officious  layers-out  neglected  to  remove 
them  from  the  old  lady's  neck. 

"Gray's  'Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard'," 
said  Mrs.  Dee,  "is  a  melancholy  poem,  but  its 

[182] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


sadness  is  as  nothing  compared  with  mine,  when  I 
sit  beside  Aunt  Emily's  grave  in  the  Finchley 
Road  cemetery  and  think  of  all  my  jewels  growing 
dim  only  six  feet  or  so  below  me."  R.  H. 

P.S. — Behold  to-day's  poem: — 

Men  say  they  know  many  things; 

But  lo !  they  have  taken  wings, 

The  arts  and  sciences, 

And  a  thousand  appliances ; 

The  wind  that  blows 

Is  all  that  anybody  knows. 


CIV 

Roy  Barrance  to  his  sister  Hazel 

Best  of  Beans, — I  am  having  quite  a  good 
time  here,  after  all.  One  of  the  carriage  horses 
isn't  at  all  a  bad  hack  and  there's  some  ripping 
country.  At  the  end  of  Hargest  Ridge  there's 
an  old  race-course  which  hasn't  been  used  for 
centuries,  where  you  can  gallop  for  miles.  Aunt 
Verena  looks  perfectly  fit  but  she  has  to  keep  still. 
She  is  awfully  decent  to  me  and  really  wants  to 
set  me  on  my  feet.  Why  is  it  that  Aunts  and 
Uncles  can  be  so  much  jollier  and  more  sym- 

[183] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


pathetic  than  fond  parients"?  One  of  Nesta's  kids 
is  here  too — Lobbie — and  we  have  a  great  rag 
every  bed-time.  Aunt  Verena  doesn't  seem  to 
think  that  I  am  cut  out  for  the  Diplomatic  Serv- 
ice. Perhaps  not.  Personally  I  should  prefer  to 
manage  an  estate.  If  it  comes  to  the  worst,  there's 
always  the  stage,  but  after  the  Stella  incident  the 
very  thought  of  singing  musical-comedy  songs 
makes  me  shudder.  There's  rather  a  nice  Irish 
girl  here,  who  reads  to  Aunt  Verena,  named  Clem- 
ency Power,  She  was  in  a  canteen  in  France  dur- 
ing the  War.  I  never  met  a  Clemency  before. 
She's  got  a  heavenly  touch  of  brogue. 

Tell  me  all  about  things  and  how  the  home- 
barometer  reads.  Is  it  still  "Stormy"^ — Yours 
till  Hell  freezes,  Roy 


CV 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  with  a  view  to  getting  assistance 
towards  the  solution  of  the  great  testamentary 
problem,  I  went  yesterday  to  see  Bemerton  the 
bookseller  and  inquire  about  the  literature  of  char- 

[184] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


ity  (for,  as  that  witty  cleric,  the  late  Dean  Beech- 
ing,  wrote: — 

It  all  comes  out  of  the  books  I  read 
And  it  all  goes  into  the  books  I  write 

— or,  more  accurately,  the  letters  I  write,  for  I 
have  never  touched  authorship  proper)  and  he 
produced  from  those  inexhaustible  shelves  a  re- 
port on  alms-houses  and  kindred  endowments  pub- 
lished in  1829  under  the  title  The  Endoived  Char- 
ities of  the  City  of  London.  This  exceedingly 
formidable  tome  I  am  going  to  peruse  and  send 
you  the  results;  and  really  I  don't  think  I  could 
do  a  more  disinterested  thing,  for  none  of  your 
money  is  coming  to  me,  and  it  consists  of  nearly 
eight-hundred  double-column  pages  of  the  kind 
of  small  t)^pe  into  which  the  Editor  of  the  Times 
puts  the  letters  of  the  most  insignificant  of  his 
correspondents. 

Bemerton,  by  the  way,  told  me  a  very  nice  ghost 
story  which,  when  I  can  find  an  hour  or  two,  I 
am  going  to  write  out  for  you.  It  was  told  him 
by  a  distinguished  Orientalist,  and  he  believes  it 
and  I  should  like  to. 

There's  a  threat  of  Prohibition  coming  to  Eng- 
land too,  but  I  hope  against  it.    There  is  too  much 

[185] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


of  "Thou  shalt  not"  in  the  world.  If  people 
were  trusted  more,  there  would  probably  be  less 
excess  and  folly.  So  far  as  I  can  gather  from 
those  who  know  America,  one  effect — and  by  no 
means  a  desirable  one — ^of  the  dry  enactment  is 
to  increase  trickery  and  mendacity.  The  illicit 
sale  of  alcoholic  beverages  still  goes  on,  but  as 
it  is  illegal  it  must  be  done  secretly  and  lies  must 
be  told  to  cover  it.  Personally  I  would  rather 
think  of  a  nation  too  convivially  merry  than  of 
one  systematically  deceptive. 

Omar  should  be  arrayed  against  Prohibition  at 
once: 

A  blessing,  we  should  use  it,  should  we  not? 
And  if  a  curse,  why  then  Who  set  it  there? 

— that  wants  some  answering.  All  the  same, 
there  are  probably  more  people  who  would  be 
better  for  less  drink  than  those  who  would  be 
irhproved  by  more;  but  the  second  class  exists. 
I  have  met  several  of  them. 

One  of  the  best  commentaries  on  abstinence  by 
compulsion  is  that  of  Walter  Raleigh,  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Literature.  During  the  War  there  was 
a  movement  at  Oxford  to  prevent  Freshers'  Wines 
and  keep  all  intoxicants  out  of  the  Colleges;  and 
[186]  R.  H. 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


a  petition  to  the  Vice-Chancellor  to  this  effect  was 
signed  by  a  large  number  of  persons,  chiefly  in 
Holy  Orders.  Walter  Raleigh,  however,  wouldn't 
sign  it,  and  this  is  part  of  the  letter  in  which  he 
gave  his  reasons: — 

"I  cannot  think  it  wise  to  ask  the  resident  mem- 
bers of  the  University  to  adopt  rules  drafted  for 
them  by  a  body  of  petitioners  the  bulk  of  whom 
are  neither  responsible  for  the  discipline  of  the 
Colleges  nor  well  acquainted  with  the  life  of  the 
undergraduates. 

"A  certain  amount  of  freedom  to  go  wrong  is 
essential  in  a  University,  where  men  are  learning, 
not  to  obey,  but  to  choose. 

"Thousands  of  the  men  whose  habits  you  cen- 
sure have  already  died  for  their  people  and  coun- 
try. Virtually  all  have  fought.  Why  is  it,  that 
when  the  greatest  mystery  of  the  Christian  re- 
ligion comes  alive  again  before  our  eyes,  so  many 
of  the  authorized  teachers  of  Christianity  do  not 
see  it  or  understand  it,  but  retire  to  the  timid 
security  of  a  prohibitive  and  negative  virtue? 
Your  petition  is  an  insult  to  the  men  who  have 
saved  you  and  are  saving  you." 

— That's  pretty  good,  don't  you  think*? 

[187] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


CVI 

Antoinette  Pvossiter  to  her  Mother 

Dearest  Mummy, — I  hope  you  will  come 
home  soon.  We  are  not  having  much  fun,  nurse 
is  so  stubbern.  Topsy  brought  in  a  mole  yester- 
day and  you  never  saw  such  darling  little  hands 
as  it  has.  Daddy  has  promised  to  have  a  coat 
made  up  for  you  if  we  get  a  thousand  of  them. 

I  wish  you  would  write  to  nurse  to  say  that  I 
needn't  have  cod  liver  oil.  A  telegram  would  be 
better  and  I  will  pay  you  back  for  it  out  of  my 
money  box. 

Uncle  Hugh  has  sent  Cyril  a  toy  theatre  and 
we  are  going  to  do  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
which  Daddy  says  was  by  bacon.  He  won't  tell 
us  what  he  means. 

When  you  come  home  you  will  find  a  surprise 
in  the  garden.  I  mean  you  will  if  it  comes  up. 
We  have  sown  Welcome  in  mignonette  in  the  bed 
under  your  sitting-room  window  but  there  are  such 
lots  of  slugs  that  we  can't  count  on  it. 
['88] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


Daddy  says  that  he  is  much  more  important 
than  Aunt  Verena. — Your  loving  Tony 

X    X    X    X    X   X 
X    X    X    X 

evil 

Nicholas  Devose  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dearest  Serena, — I  am  sending  a  selec- 
tion, and  an  easel  with  them.  I  suggest  that  you 
adopt  the  Japanese  custom  and  change  them  pe- 
riodically. The  Japanese  make  each  picture  the 
King  of  the  Wall  for  a  week  or  so  in  turn,  but 
I  should  like  you  to  have  a  fresh  one  of  my  draw- 
ings on  the  easel  every  day — for  the  whole  day. 
That  is,  of  course,  if  you  like  them.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  happy  I  am  to  be  allowed  to  do  this.  I 
feel  that  I  am  again  in  your  life,  but  with  perfect 
safety:  vicariously,  so  to  speak,  but  with  the  full- 
est fidelity  too.  Let  some  one  advise  me  of  safe 
arrival.  I  am  sending  you  sixty  picked  things — 
so  you  must  be  well  again  in  sixty  days !  But  I 
daresay  that  if  you  did  the  picking  you  would 
make  a  totally  different  choice.  One  of  the  tragic 
things  in  an  artist's  life — and  I  don't  mean  by 

[189] 


VF.RENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


artist  only  a  painter — is  the  tendency  of  people  to 
admire  what  he  thinks  his  least  worthy  efforts. 

N.  D. 


CVIII 

Clemency  Power  to  Patricia  Power 

Angel  Pat, — I  am  so  sorry  about  Herself.  Of 
course  I'll  come  directly,  if  it's  necessary.  I  have 
told  Miss  Raby  and  she  agrees.  Let  me  have  a 
telegram  anyhow  directly  you  get  this.  I'll  tell 
you  a  secret,  Pat.  I  have  an  admirer,  and  at  any 
moment  he  may  sue  for  my  hand!  Or  such  is 
my  unmaidenly  guess.  It's  this  plaguey  Kerry 
voice  of  mine.  Every  one  says  sweet  things  about 
it,  but  for  this  boy — Miss  Raby's  nephew  who  has 
been  staying  here — it's  been  too  much  entirely. 
That  he  will  propose  I  feel  certain  and  I  wish  he 
wouldn't.  I  was  bothered  enough  in  France,  but 
one  doesn't  take  War  proposals  seriously,  espe- 
cially when  the  men  are  away  from  their  own 
country.  But  this  boy  is  as  eager  as  a  trout 
stream. — Yours,  Clem. 

[190] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


CIX 
Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Verena,  I  now  send  you  some  notes  col- 
lected from  the  perusal  of  the  gigantic  volume  on 
the  Endowed  Charities  of  London  as  they  were 
examined  by  a  commission  early  in  the  last  cen- 
tury. It  is  a  monument  to  the  public-spirited 
dead.  In  London  the  benefactions  run  chiefly  to 
free  schools,  alms-houses,  subsidized  sermons  and 
doles  of  bread  and  coal — "sea  coal,"  as  it  is 
usually  called.  Now  and  then  there  is  an  original 
touch,  as  when  one  Gilbert  Keate  gave  to  the 
parish  of  St.  Dunstan's  in  the  East — ^you  know, 
the  church  with  the  lovely  spire  built  on  flying 
buttresses — "£6o,  to  be  lent  gratis,  yearly,  during 
the  space  of  four  years,  to  three  young  men  in- 
habitants of  this  parish  (one  of  them  to  be  of  the 
Dolphin  precinct),  by  the  vestry,  to  each  £20  on 
good  security,  by  bond  for  repayment  at  four 
years'  end,  as  the  inhabitants  in  vestry  should 
think  fit." 

Samuel  Wilson  did  even  better,  his  will,  dated 
October  27th,  1766,  containing  this  clause:  "And 

[191] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


my  mind  and  will  further  is,  that  the  said  sum  of 
twenty  thousand  pounds,  or  whatever  sum  be  so 
paid  by  my  said  executors  to  the  said  chamberlain, 
shall  be  and  remain  as  a  perpetual  fund,  to  be 
lent  to  young  men  who  have  been  set  up  one  year, 
or  not  more  than  two  years,  in  some  trade  or  man- 
ufacture, in  the  city  of  London,  or  within  three 
miles  thereof,  and  can  give  satisfactory  security 
for  the  repayment  of  the  money  so  lent  to  them; 
.  .  .  and  further  my  mind  and  will  is,  that  no 
part  of  this  money  shall  be  lent  to  an  alehouse 
keeper,  a  distiller  or  vendor  of  distilled  liquors." 

That  seems  to  me  to  be  a  very  excellent  dis- 
position of  money;  but  probably  it  is  not  in  your 
line.  The  Corporation  of  London  was  appointed 
to  manage  the  charity,  but  as  a  rule  these  rich 
City  men  left  their  money  to  their  Chartered  Com- 
panies for  distribution.  Where  alms-houses,  for 
example,  are  built  and  endowed  there  must  ob- 
viously be  some  organization  to  carry  them  on; 
and  the  City  Companies,  who  are  commonly  sup- 
posed to  devote  their  time  to  eating  and  drinking, 
really  exist  largely  for  this  admirable  purpose. 
So  do  churchwardens;  carrying  round  the  plate 
is  but  a  small  part  of  their  duties. 
[192] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


Here  is  a  pretty  compliment,  to  take  the  taste 
of  all  that  away: — 

If  I  were  a  rose  at  your  window, 

Happiest  rose  of  its  crew, 
Every  blossom  I  bore  would  bend  inward: 

They'd  know  where  the  sunshine  grew. 

A  letter  from  an  old  friend  making  his  first 
long  voyage  reaches  me  to-day  from  Aden.  He 
says,  "Why  don't  artists  oftener  paint  circular  pic- 
tures'? Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  than  the 
views  of  water  and  sky,  and  now  and  then  of 
scenery  or  buildings,  that  I  have  been  getting 
through  my  porthole.  I  would  almost  go  so  far 
as  to  say  that  round  pictures  are  the  only  ones — 
at  any  rate  of  the  open  air.  You  should  get  one 
of  the  Galleries  to  arrange  a  Porthole  Exhibition 
and  start  the  fashion." — Good  night,     R.  H. 

P.S. — Here  is  the  latest  definition  of  appen- 
dicitis. "The  thing  you  have  the  day  before  your 
doctor  buys  a  Rolls-Royce." 


[193] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


cx 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — Since  Roy  has  cx)me 
back  from  his  visit,  I  seem  to  know  so  much  more 
about  you.  I  don't  mean  that  he  tells  us  any- 
thing, but  he  answers  questions.  I  want  to  thank 
you  for  your  kindness  to  him,  which  was  just  what 
he  was  needing  to  pull  him  together,  because  fa- 
ther never  has  time  to  take  any  real  interest  in 
him  and  is  impatient  too.  Fathers  and  sons  so 
often,  it  seems  to  me,  are  the  last  people  who 
ought  to  meet.  Mothers  and  daughters  can  hit  it 
off  badly  enough  and  misunderstand  each  other 
thoroughly,  but  I  don't  think  there  is  so  much  real 
hostility  between  them  as  between  those  others. 
I  don't  think  hostility  is  the  word;  it  is  a  kind 
of  rivalry,  particularly  as  the  mother  usually  takes 
the  boy's  side.  Anyway,  if  you  are  going  to  be 
as  much  interested  in  poor  old  Roy  as  he  says,  I 
am  sure  he  will  buck  up  and  do  something  worth 
while,  because  he  has  lots  of  ability  and  makes 
friends  too.  In  fact,  when  it  comes  to  the  other 
sex  he  makes  them  too  easily.    His  chief  trouble 

[194] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


is  that  he  had  just  enough  Army  life  to  unsettle 
him  and  not  enough  to  give  him  discipline.  The 
War  came  for  him  at  the  wrong  time:  he  ought 
to  have  been  younger  and  escaped  it  or  older  and 
have  gone  properly  into  it. 

I  was  much  more  lucky,  for  I  shall  never  regret 
a  moment  of  my  V.A.D.  work.  But  I  wish  I 
could  be  busy  again.  So  does  nearly  every  girl 
I  know.  We  all  miss  the  War  horribly;  which 
sounds  a  callous  and  selfish  thing  to  say,  but  isn't 
really.  It  shows,  however,  that  there  must  be 
something  very  wrong  with  our  civilization  if  it 
needs  a  ghastly  thing  like  that  to  give  thousands 
and  thousands  of  girls  their  only  chance  to  be 
useful! — Your  loving  Hazel 

P.S. — A  hospital  nurse  I  know  said  a  funny 
thing  yesterday.  She  said  that  one  of  the  trag- 
edies of  nursing  is  that  the  officer  you  restore  to 
life  is  so  seldom  the  officer  you  want  to  dine  out 
with ;  and  another  tragedy  is  that  that  is  what  he 
can't  understand. 


[195] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


CXI 

Patricia  Power  to  Clemency  Power 

Dearest  Clem, — Herself  is  herself  again. 

Your  news  is  very  exciting.  Of  course  you 
were  bound  to  have  a  proposal  at  Kington,  be- 
cause you  have  them  everywhere.  I  rather  like 
the  sound  of  the  boy.  Do  tell  me  some  more 
about  him  and  how  you  yourself  feel.  There 
seem  to  be  no  boys  here,  except  the  Luttrells  and 
the  Hills,  and  they  are  not  very  luscious;  but 
there's  to  be  a  dance  at  Kenmare  and  perhaps  we 
shall  see  a  new  face  or  two  then.  O  Lord  for 
some  new  faces!     (The  maiden's  prayer.) 

What  about  that  Doctor  out  in  France^  Where 
does  he  come  in  *?  You  mustn't  be  a  heart-breaker, 
you  know,  darling. 

Dilly  and  Dally  grow  in  beauty  day  by  day 
and  go  on  giving  amazing  supplies  of  milk.  Old 
Biddy  Sullivan  has  been  drinking  again.  Mrs. 
O'Connor's  little  girl  the  other  day  was  overheard 
laying  it  down  as  a  maxim,  to  her  brother,  that 
one  should  always  tell  the  truth,  not  because 
it  is  right,  but  because  "you  can  be  sure  your 

[196] 


VERENA  IN    THE   MIDST 


friends  will  find  you  out."    They  do,  don't  they? 
— Your  loving  and  jealous  Pat 

CXII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Verena,  I  return  to  the  Charity  Book. 
Behold  the  case  of  Peter  Symonds,  which  may, 
or  may  not,  offer  suggestions.  "Peter  Symonds, 
by  will,  dated  4th  April,  1586,  gave  to  the  parson 
and  churchwardens  of  All  Saints,  Lombard  Street, 
yearly,  for  ever,  £3,  2s.  8d.,  to  be  received  of  the 
churchwardens  and  socialty  of  the  Company  of 
Mercers,  to  be  employed  by  the  said  parson  and 
churchwardens  in  manner  following,  viz.  to  pay 
30s.  thereof  yearly,  on  Good  Friday,  to  the  chil- 
dren of  Christ's  Hospital,  in  London,  on  condi- 
tion that  the  same  children,  or  threescore  of  them 
at  least,  should,  on  the  same  Good  Friday,  in  the 
morning,  yearly,  for  ever,  come  into  the  said 
church  of  All  Saints  .  .  .  and  he  directed  that  the 
said  parson  and  churchwardens  should  bestow  3s. 
4d.  in  the  purchase  of  good  raisins,  which  should 
be  divided  in  threescore  parts,  in  paper,  and  one 
part  given  to  each  child;  and  he  gave  i6d.  of  the 

[197] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


said  £3,  2s.  8d.  to  the  beadles  of  the  hospital, 
who  should  come  with  the  children." 

Peter  Symonds  was  a  man,  and  perhaps  you 
would  rather  be  guided  by  a  woman.  If  so,  ob- 
serve the  example  of  Margaret  Sharles: — 

"By  will,  dated  2nd  September,  1600,  Mar- 
garet Sharles  bequeathed  £20  unto  such  a  learned 
man  as  her  overseers  should  think  good,  to  preach 
every  week  in  the  year,  in  the  parish  of  Christ 
Church  .  .  .  she  also  bequeathed  to  the  vicar  and 
churchwardens,  £5  a  year,  to  be  employed  for 
ever,  towards  the  relief  of  the  vicar,  curate,  clerk, 
and  sexton  by  the  discretion  of  the  churchwar- 
dens there;  she  also  gave  unto  and  amongst  her 
poor  tenants  within  the  said  parish,  £6  yearly, 
for  ever,  to  be  bestowed  in  manner  following:  £1, 
6s.  8d.  for  a  load  of  great  coals;  16s.  for  a  thou- 
sand billets,  to  be  distributed  amongst  her  said 
tenants,  three  days  before  Christmas,  and  the  resi- 
due thereof  to  be  spent  upon  a  dinner  for  her 
said  poor  tenants  on  Christmas  Day,  at  the  sign 
of  the  Bell,  in  Newgate-market." 

Even  better,  for  your  purpose,  is  the  example 
of  Jane  Shank : — 

"By  will,  dated  7th  July,  1795,  Mrs.  Jane 
[198] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


Shank  directed  that  the  Painter-stainers'  Com- 
pany should  divide  the  interest  on  her  fortune  into 
twelve  equal  parts,  and  shall  apply  eleven-twelfth 
parts  thereof  in  payment  of  pensions  of  £10  a 
year,  to  indigent  blind  women,  and  retain  the  re- 
maining twelfth  part  as  a  compensation  for  their 
trouble  and  expenses.  Jane  Shank  requested  that 
the  Company  would  advertise  for  proper  objects 
of  the  charity  in  two  morning  and  two  evening 
papers,  three  times  each,  as  often  as  any  vacancies 
should  happen;  and  she  directed  that  the  persons 
to  be  elected  should  be  of  the  age  of  61  years  at 
the  least,  should  have  been  blind  three  years, 
should  be  widows  or  unmarried,  and  unable  to 
maintain  themselves  by  any  employment,  should 
be  in  distressed  circumstances,  bom  in  England, 
not  in  Wales  or  Ireland,  have  lived  three  years 
in  their  present  parish,  have  no  income  for  life 
above  £10  a  year,  never  having  received  alms  of 
any  parish  or  place,  never  having  been  a  common 
beggar,  and  being  of  sober  life  and  conversation." 
Jane,  you  see,  was  a  forerunner  of  Sir  Arthur 
Pearson  of  St.  Dunstan's,  who  would,  I  am  sure, 
have  no  difficulty  in  recommending  a  suitable  des- 
tination for  any  spare  funds  of  your  own. 

[199] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


But  I  must  not  weary  you  (or  myself)  with 
these  testaments. 

Here  is  a  story  told  me  by  my  friend,  Mrs. 
Torwood  Leigh.  Towards  the  end  of  the  War 
she  gave  a  party  to  an  Officers'  mess  stationed  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  almost  every  guest  ex- 
ceeded. The  next  day,  when  they  called  to  re- 
turn thanks,  each  one  in  turn  took  her  aside  to 
apologize — for  another! 

And  here  is  the  poem:  something  lighter  for  a 
change : — 

I  recollect  a  nurse  called  Ann 

Who  carried  me  about  the  grass, 
And  one  fine  day  a  fair  young  man 

Came  up  and  kissed  the  pretty  lass. 
She  did  not  make  the  least  objection, 

Thinks  I  "Ha  ha! 

When  I'm  grown  up  I'll  tell  mamma." 
And  that's  my  earliest  recollection. 

That  is  a  poem  by  a  man  pretending  to  infancy. 
Here  is  a  genuine  child-product,  one  of  the  lyrics 
of  a  little  American  girl  named  Hilda  Conklin. 
Don't  you  think  it  rather  beautiful? 

WATER 

The  world  turns  softly 

Not  to  spill  its  lakes  and  rivers, 

The  water  is  held  in  its  arms 


[200] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


And  the  sky  is  held  in  the  water. 
What  is  water, 
That  pours  silver, 
And  can  hold  the  sky? 

Good  night,  R.  H. 


CXIII 
Verena  Raby  to  Nicholas  Devose 

Dear, — They  are  beautiful,  and  so  like  you.  I 
shall  set  them  up  daily,  one  by  one,  as  you  wish 
— and  it  is  a  charming  idea  and  will  make  the 
nights  so  exciting,  for  some  one  else  will  choose 
them  for  me  and  it  will  be  all  a  surprise !  But  I 
had  to  go  through  the  whole  sixty  first.  How 
could  I  wait*?    Why,  I  might  die! 

How  wonderful  a  world  it  is,  and  how  for- 
tunate are  those  who  can  travel  about  and  feast 
their  eyes  on  it — and  yet  how  sad  you  rovers  must 
be !  Especially  at  sunset !  Some  of  your  painted 
sunsets  are  almost  more  than  I  can  bear,  but  what 
they  must  have  been  to  you  I  can  only  guess. 
And  how  more  than  fortunate  are  those,  like  you, 
who  can  capture  so  much  of  all  this  beauty  and 
preserve  it  for  others! 

[201] 


VRRENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


None  the  less  I  don't  envy  the  traveller.  "East, 
west,  home's  best" ;  and  yet  perhaps  home  should 
rightly  be  where  oneself  is;  perhaps  we  are  tod" 
prone  to  surround  ourselves  with  comforts  in  one 
spot  and  disregard  the  big  world.  But  after  lying 
here  so  long  it  seems  as  if  there  would  be  no  joy 
in  any  travel  to  equal  one  brief  walk  round  the 
garden. — Thank  you  again.  Serena. 

CXIV 

Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Aunt, — You  will  begin  to  think  of 
me  as  a  business  man  and  nothing  else,  even  al- 
though so  many  of  my  schemes  have  come  to  noth- 
ing. But  I  assure  you  I  am  quite  human  too  and 
often  think  of  your  illness  with  sincere  regret.  If 
I  have  had  bad  luck  with  my  schemes,  it  is  due  to 
the  fact,  which  is  no  disgrace,  that  they  are  before 
their  time.  I  have  been,  in  a  way,  too  far-sighted. 
I  have  seen  the  public  needs  too  soon,  before  even 
the  public  is  conscious  of  them;  which  commer- 
cially is  a  mistake.  One  cannot,  however,  change 
one's  nature.  My  great  distress  is  that  I  have  as 
yet  failed  to  convince  you  of  my  general  acute- 
[202] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


ness,  at  any  rate  to  the  point  of  support.  With- 
out a  little  capital  a  young  experimentalist  can 
do  nothing,  and  I  have  only  my  brains. 

The  project  which  I  am  now  about  to  lay  be- 
fore you  is,  however,  so  different  from  the  others, 
and  so  romantic  and  picturesque,  that  I  feel  sure 
you  will  be  interested.  It  also  offers  chances  of 
rich  returns. 

There  is  somewhere  in  Mexico  a  lake  with 
which  is  associated  a  very  remarkable  religious 
ceremony.  On  a  certain  day  in  the  year  the  priest 
of  the  community,  accompanied  by  thousands  of 
worshippers,  proceeds  to  the  shore  of  this  lake, 
where,  after  some  impressive  rites,  he  enters  the 
water.  The  others  remain  outside.  The  priest 
wades  steadily  out  into  the  lake,  the  bottom  of 
which  slopes  very  gradually,  until  his  head  alone 
is  visible. 

(All  this  may  sound  very  odd  to  you,  but  you 
must  remember,  dear  Aunt,  that  the  Mexicans  are 
a  strange  race  and  that  foreign  religions  can  often 
appear  grotesque  to  us.  My  informant,  a  very 
cultivated  man,  assures  me  that,  in  this  lake  busi- 
ness, the  comic  element  is  lacking,  such  is  the  fer- 
vour of  the  multitude.) 

[203] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


Very  well  then,  the  priest,  having  reached  the 
farthest  point,  remains  standing  there  while  the 
people  set  to  work  to  tear  off  their  jewels  and 
ornaments,  which  were  brought  for  the  purpose, 
and  to  fling  them  at  him.  The  idea  is  that  if  the 
article  thrown  reaches  him  or  goes  beyond  him, 
the  thrower's  sins  are  forgiven.  But  the  point  for 
you  and  me  is  that  whether  you  throw  far  or^ 
throw  shorty  the  jewels  and  ornaments  fall  into 
the  water  and  sink. 

Now  this  has  been  going  on  for  ages,  and  since 
it  would  be  impious  for  the  Mexican  believers  to 
attempt  to  recover  any  of  the  treasure  it  follows 
that  it  is  there  still.  My  plan  is  very  simple — 
merely  to  form  a  small  company  and  to  drain  the 
lake.  I  can  give  you  no  particulars  at  the  mo- 
ment— I  have  not  even  ascertained  how  big  the 
lake  is — but  I  am  being  very  active  about  it  and 
am  already  on  the  track  of  a  first-class  engineer. 
As  he,  however,  requires  a  financial  guarantee,  I 
am  hoping  that  you  will  see  your  way  to  invest, 
say,  £1000  at  once  and  perhaps  more  later. — I 
am,  your  affectionate  nephew, 

Horace  Mun-Brown 
[204] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


P.S. — How  interesting  it  would  be  if  I  could 
spend  my  honeymoon  visiting  the  place  with 
Hazel  and  making  inquiries  I  But  alas!  that  is 
probably  too  rosy  a  dream. 

cxv 

Antoinette  Rossiter  to  her  Mother 

Darlingest  Mummy, — Thank  you  for  being 
such  an  angel  about  the  cod  liver  oil.  I  like  Oval- 
tine  much  better  but  Daddy  says  it  is  to  make 
you  lay  eggs. 

Sarah  was  so  funny  yesterday.  Daddy  told 
her  to  bring  him  last  week's  Punch  from  the  li- 
brary and  she  brought  a  much  older  one.  When 
he  was  cross  with  her  she  said  "O  I  never  look  at 
dates."  You  should  have  seen  Daddy's  face. 
And  to-day  when  she  was  telling  us  about  the 
butcher  being  rude  to  her  she  said  "But  I  don't 
mind,  I  always  treat  him  with  ignorance." 

Nurse's  young  man,  Bert  Urible,  has  been  here. 
He  has  come  back  from  Messupotamia.  Cyril 
saw  him  kiss  her  in  the  kitchen.  He  bought  us 
some  pear  drops  and  nurse  took  some  of  his  War 
relics  upstairs  to  show  Daddy  and  Daddy  sent 

[205] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


for  him  and  gave  him  a  whisky  and  soda.  When 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  killed  many  Turks  he  said 
"Not  half." — Your  loving  Tony 

X    X    X    X 
X    X    X    X 


CXVI 

Roy  Barrance  to  Clemency  Power 

Dear  Miss  Power, — I  hope  you  won't  think 
it  awful  cheek  of  me  to  write  to  you  but  you 
were  saying  the  other  day  that  you  wondered  if 
it  was  necessary  to  get  a  passport  to  go  to  Ireland 
now.  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  that  it 
isn't.  I  inquired  about  it  at  Cook's.  But  I  hope 
you  are  not  going  home  just  yet,  for  I  am  sure 
my  aunt  can't  spare  you.  I  wish  all  the  same  that 
when  you  do  go  I  could  be  there,  for  Ireland  is 
one  of  the  places  I  have  always  wanted  to  see, 
and  I  have  always  felt  that  the  only  decent  thing 
to  do  is  to  give  them  Home  Rule  and  have  done 
with  it.  A  fellow  I  know  in  the  Air  Force  who 
came  from  Kerry  says  it  is  ripping. — I  am,  yours 
sincerely,  Roy  Barrance 

[206] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


P.S. — If  you  are  going  to  Ireland  and  would 
send  me  a  wire  I  would  meet  you  and  help  you 
through  London. 

P.  S.  2. — The  evening  papers  are  full  of  more 
Irish  outrages.  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  travel 
alone. 

CXVII 

Clemency  Power  to  Roy  Barrance 

Dear  Mr.  Barrance, — It  was  very  kind  of 
you  to  trouble  about  the  passport.  I  hope  not  to 
be  leaving  Miss  Raby  until  she  has  really  done 
with  me,  but  my  Mother,  who  lives  near  Kenmare, 
is  sometimes  not  very  well  and  I  might  be  sent  for 
and  should  not  like  to  have  to  be  delayed  by  red 
tape.  Yes,  Kerry  is  very  lovely  and  I  find  my- 
self longing  for  it  most  of  the  time.  But  I  doubt 
if  you  would  care  for  a  country  that  is  so  wet. 
English  people  are  so  often  disappointed  to  find 
only  grey  mists  and  rain.  For  fine  weather  June 
is  the  best  month  in  our  parts,  but  I  like  it  all — 
grey  mists  and  rain  hardly  less  than  the  sunshine. 
Lobbie  has  been  very  naughty  since  you  left  and 

[207] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


goes  to  bed  in  the  dumps  instead  of  in  the  highest 
spirits.  I  am  reading  Miss  Raby  the  loveliest 
Irish  book — indade  and  it's  more  than  that,  it's 
a  Kerry  book — just  now,  called  Mary  of  the 
Wmds,  and  sometimes  I  am  so  homesick  I  can't 
go  on  at  all  at  all.  It's  destroyed  I  am  with  the 
truth  of  it  I — I  am.  vours  sincerely, 

Clemency  Power 


CXVIII 

Roy  J3ARRANCE  TO  Clemency  Power 

Dear  Miss  Power, — Please  don't  think  of  me 
as  nothing  but  English.  There's  quite  a  lot  of 
Irish  blood  in  our  family,  some  way  back,  and  I 
always  feel  drawn  to  the  Irish  and  sorry  for  them. 
As  for  wet  weather  I  love  it  when  I'm  prepared 
for  it;  and  I've  got  a  topping  Burberry.  I  got 
that  book  you  mentioned,  Mary  of  the  Winds, 
but  it's  a  little  off  my  beat.  I  would  give  any- 
thing to  hear  you  read  it,  it  would  be  just  too 
lovely,  and  better  than  any  music.  I  hope  you 
don't  mind  my  saying  that  I  think  your  ordinary 
voice  absolutely  tophole,  the  most  ripping  thing  I 
[208] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


ever  listened  to.  There  isn't  any  music,  not  even 
"You're  here  and  I'm  here,"  to  touch  it.  Most 
people  have  to  sing  to  be  musical,  but  all  you 
need  to  do  is  to  talk  and  it  beats  a  concert  hollow. 
I  would  love  to  have  it  on  a  gramophone, — I  am, 
yours  sincerely,  Roy  Barrance 


CXIX 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Verena,  you  ought  perhaps  to  know 
about  the  St.  Ethelburga  Society  School,  where 
36  boys  and  20  girls  were  educated,  and  fully 
re-clothed  once  a  year — being  taught  reading, 
writing  and  arithmetic  and  the  catechism,  with 
Lewis's  explanation — and  all  for  £1400  perma- 
nent funds  and  occasional  subscriptions  and  do- 
nations. But  of  course  money  was  worth  more 
then  than  in  our  reckless  post- War  day.  For  ex- 
ample, at  the  St.  Bride's  School  80  boys  and  70 
girls  were  educated,  of  whom  40  boys  and  30 
girls  were  also  clothed  and  apprentice  fees  of  £3 
given  with  certain  of  the  boys — and  this  on  an  in- 
come of  £375. 

[209] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


I  have  long  thought  that  a  handbook  should 
be  compiled  for  the  benefit  of  persons,  like  your- 
self, who  are  philanthropically  disposed  but  don't 
know  what  to  do.  It  might  have  some  such  title 
as  "Philanthropic  Hints  to  Those  about  to  Make 
their  Wills,"  or  "The  Inspired  Testator,"  or 
"First  Aid  to  Imaginative  Bequest"  or  "The  Pru- 
dent Lawyer  Confounded"  or  "How  to  be  Happy 
though  Dead."  In  this  book  an  alphabetical  list 
would  be  given  of  the  less  fortunate  ones  of  the 
earth  and  suggestions  offered  as  to  what  a  little 
money  could  do  towards  a  periodic  gilding  of  their 
existence.  No  one  could  compile  it  without  the 
assistance  of  my  London  Charity  report  or  simi- 
lar works. 

For  a  change  let  me  give  you  a  poem  in  prose : — 

FATHER-LOVE 

One  hears  so  much  of  mother-love. 

The  phrase  alone  is  expected  to  touch  the  very  springs 
of  emotion. 

There  are  songs  about  it,  set  to  maudlin  music ;  there  is, 
in  America,  a  Mother's  Day. 

God  knows  I  have  no  desire  to  bring  the  faintest  sus- 
picion of  ridicule  to  such  a  feeling,  even  to  such  a 
fashion ; 


[210] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


The  stronger  the  bonds  that  unite  mothers  and  children 
the  better  for  human  society ; 

The  more  we  think  of  and  cherish  our  mothers  the  better 
for  ourselves. 

We  owe  so  much  tenderness  to  them  not  merely  because 
they  gave  us  life,  but  because  they  are  women  and 
as  such  have  a  disproportionate  burden  of  drudgery 
and  endurance  and  grief. 

All  the  same,  why  was  it  that  when,  the  other  evening,  I 
saw  a  grey-haired  father — my  host — thinking  him- 
self unobserved,  stroke  the  head  of  his  grown-up  son 
(a  father  too)  and  the  son  lay  his  hand  on  his 
father's  with  a  caressing  gesture  for  a  moment,  but 
with  a  slightly  guilty  look — why  was  it  that  some- 
thing melted  within  me  (as  it  never  does  when  I 
watch  the  embraces  of  mothers  and  sons)  and  my 
eyes  suddenly  dimmed? 


Good  night,  R.  H. 

cxx 

Louisa  Parrish  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Verena, — I  have  just  returned  from 
the  funeral  of  my  brother  Claude,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  interments  I  was  ever  privileged  to  at- 
tend. With  great  forethought  he  had  himself 
selected  the  site  when  the  cemetery  was  first  laid 

[211] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


out,  choosing  a  spot  between  two  lovely  firs  on 
the  high  ground  where  the  view  is  so  extensive. 
He  always  was  so  careful  in  his  ways,  and  this  is 
but  another  example  of  his  kindly  consideration 
for  others.  By  the  blessing  of  Heaven  the  day 
was  fine,  but  the  mourners  were  protected  from 
the  sun  by  the  grateful  shade  of  the  trees — ex- 
actly, I  feel  sure,  as  my  dear  brother  had  planned. 
Now  and  then,  when  I  was  able  to  raise  my  eyes, 
there  lay  the  wonderful  panorama  before  me. 

The  funeral  attracted  a  large  concourse,  Claude 
having  been  a  public  man  held  in  the  greatest 
esteem  and  affection,  and  there  were  few  dry  eyes. 
The  cofHn  was  very  plain,  for  he  always  held  that 
it  was  a  waste  of  money  to  spend  it  lavishly  on 
the  trappings  of  mortality. 

Forgive  me  if  I  write  no  mo^e  this  evening, 
for  I  am  tired  with  travelling  and  sad  at  heart- 
But  I  wanted  you  to  hear  of  the  success  of  the 
day.  I  often  spoke  to  Claude  about  you. — Your 
truly  affectionate  Louisa 


[212] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


CXXI 

Evangeline  Barrance  to  Verena  Rabt 

Dear  Aunt  Verena, — I  am  sending  you  the 
second  number  of  The  Beguiler  and  we  all  hope 
it  will  amuse  you.  We  also  hope  that  no  other 
number  will  be  needed,  not  because  we  are  tired, 
but  because  we  want  you  to  be  well. — Your  lov- 
ing niece,  Evangeline 


[213] 


No.  2.  September,  1919 


THE   BEGUILER 

OR 

THE  INVALID'S  FRIEND 

A  Miscellany 


COMPILED   BY 

EVANGELINE  BARRANCE 

ASSISTED    BY   A    BUNCH   OF    FLOWERS 


[215] 


2  The  Beguiler 

i 


THE  TEST 
A  STORY 

There  was  once  a  girl  named  Phillppa  Barnes  whose 
father  and  mother  died  when  she  was  seventeen.  As 
she  was  too  young  to  be  married  and  was  very  rich,  she 
had  to  have  a  guardian,  and  in  reply  to  an  advertisement 
a  number  of  candidates  for  that  position  came  forward. 
They  were  all  handsome  elderly  men  of  nearly  forty,  and^^ 
when  Philippa  saw  them  she  liked  most  of  them  a  good 
deal,  but  as  their  references  were  all  perfect  she  was 
puzzled  how  to  choose.  Being  very  fond  of  Shakespeare 
she  had  read  The  Merchant  of  Venice  and  she  decided 
that  she  must  devise  a  test,  as  Portia  did,  but  as  it  would 
be  foolish  to  borrow  the  idea  of  the  three  caskets,  which 
most  people  know  about,  she  had  to  invent  a  new  one. 

All  the  applicants  for  the  post  of  guardian  were  told 
to  be  at  her  family  mansion  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  when  they  were  assembled  Philippa  sent  for  them 
one  by  one  and  told  each  that  he  must  recount  to  her 
some  anecdote  in  which  he  had  taken  part  with  some 
person  of  inferior  position — such  as  a  bus-conductor  or 
a  taxi-driver  or  a  railway  porter  or  a  waiter  or  a  char. 
When  they  had  all  finished  Philippa  made  her  choice, 
which  fell  upon  a  candidate  named  Barclay  Pole  who 
was  not  so  tall  as  the  others  and  not  so  well  dressed, 
although  his  references  were  beyond  dispute. 

"But,"  said  her  old  nurse,  who  had  been  standing  by 
her  side  all  through  the  interviews,  "why  do  you  choose 
him  when  there  are  all  those  handsome  ones  at  your 
disposal '?" 

[216] 


The  Beguiler 


"Because,"  Philippa  said,  "he  was  the  only  one  who 
when  he  told  the  story  did  not  make  the  other  person 
call  him  Sir." 

Barclay  Pole  thus  became  her  guardian  and  carried 
out  his  duties  with  perfect  success  until  it  was  time  to 
give  her  hand  in  marriage  to  Captain  Knightliville  of 
the  Guards. 

"Heartease" 


PEOPLE  WHO  REALLY  DESERVE  THE 
O.B.E. 

II.     THE  POSTMAN 

When  my  brother  was  small  he  wanted  to  be  a  postman 
because  he  wanted  to  knock  double  knocks ;  but  no  one 
who  is  grown  up  would  want  it,  because  there  is  no  fun 
in  spending  your  life  in  delivering  letters  to  other  people, 
other  people's  letters  are  so  dull. 

Other  people  have  such  odd  ways  with  their  letters. 
Father  even  is  cross  when  there  is  a  letter  for  him  and 
says  "Confound  the  thing ! — why  can't  they  leave  me 
alone?"  But  my  eldest  sister  waits  for  the  postman  and 
is  miserable  if  he  doesn't  bring  her  anything. 

Some  people  lay  their  letters  by  their  plates  and  go  on 
eating.     This  seems  to  me  extraordinary. 

Some  of  our  visitors  who  get  letters  say  "Excuse  me" 
before  they  read  them,  but  others  don't. 

When  I  think  of  the  postman  going  on  for  ever  and 

[217] 


4  The  Beguiler 


ever  taking  letters  to  other  people  I  am  convinced  that 
he  ought  to  have  the  O.B.E. 

"Rose" 


THE  CINEMA 

One  of  the  strange  things  to  reflect  about  is  what  people 
did  before  the  cinema  was  invented.  My  father  was  an 
old  man  before  he  ever  saw  a  moving  picture  and  when 
he  was  a  boy  there  were  none.  He  does  not  like  them 
now  because  he  says  he  always  comes  away  with  either 
a  headache  or  a  flea,  but  I  like  them  excessively. 

I  like  the  serious  ones  best,  but  my  brother  Jack  wants 
the  comic  ones.  He  can  walk  like  Charlie  Chaplin. 
He  likes  Mutt  and  Jeff  too.  I  know  a  girl  who  v/as 
photographed  by  a  cinema  man  while  she  was  at  Church 
Parade  in  the  Park  and  the  next  week  she  saw  it  at  a 
Picture  Palace  and  recognized  herself. 

One  kind  of  a  film  is  always  very  dull  and  that  is  the 
kind  that  shows  the  King  shaking  hands  with  the  Lord 
Mayor  and  people  coming  away  from  football  matches. 
It  is  a  very  curious  thing  but  nearly  always  when  I  get 
into  a  cinema  this  kind  of  film  happens  at  once  and  goes 
on  for  a  long  time,  so  that  it  is  very  often  too  late  to  stay 
to  the  end  of  the  story-film. 

I  wish  they  would  turn  more  books  into  films.  A 
girl  I  know  lived  in  Paris  and  saw  The  Count  of  Monte 
Crista  and  it  was  splendid.  Lots  of  books  would  make 
good  films.  The  other  day  we  all  said  what  books  we 
would  most  like  to  see  on  the  movies.  Two  girls  came 
to  tea  and  one  said  The  Black  Tulip  and  the  other  Little 
Women.     Jack  wanted   Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  un- 

[218] 


The  Beguiler  5 

^— — — —^  — ^ 

der  the  Sea  and  I  think  one  of  Mrs.  Nesbit's  books  like 
The  Enchanted  Castle  would  be  splendid. 

One  thing  that  I  don't  like  about  the  movies  is  that 
they  give  you  too  much  time  to  read  the  short  sentences  in. 

It  is  funny  how  a  high  wind  always  blows  in  American 
drawing-rooms  in  the  cinema. 

M.P.s  when  you  see  them  on  the  movies  going  to  the 
opening  of  Parliament  always  walk  too  fast. 

"Dandelion" 


\,^;p 


tJKFORTUNATE    MISTJlTDEBSTAIfOIXG    NEAH    CHELSEA    HOSPITAX 


[219] 


6  The  Be<^iiler 


HISTORICAL  RHYMES 

II.     LINES  ON  THE  LANDING  OF  KING  JOHN 
AFTER  A  CERTAIN  TRAGIC  EVENT 

"Long  live  the  King"  the  people  cried 
And  cheered  with  all  their  might. 

They  crowded  to  the  vessel's  side 
To  see  King  John  alight. 

"Will  he  be  clad  in  gold  and  silk? 

The  children,  wondering,  said. 
"Yes,  and  in  ermine,  white  as  milk 

With  gold  upon  his  head." 

"Will  he  wear  gems  about  his  neck 

And  hold  a  sceptre  rare*?" 
"Yes,  when  he  stands  upon  the  deck 

You'll  see  them  flashing  fair." 

But  lo !  whose  is  that  skimpy  form 

All  bare  and  shivering? 
Whose  are  those  thin  and  naked  legs? 

It  is — great  Heavens  ! — the  King ! 

Why  doth  he  cower  beneath  a  sack, 

As  cold  as  lemon-squash? 
The  regal  panoply,  alack, 

Is  missing  in  the  Wash. 


Tansy* 


[220] 


The  Beguller 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  ZOO 

Last  Saturday  we  all  went  to  the  Zoo.  There  were  no 
lion  or  tiger  cubs,  but  we  went  behind  the  cages  in  the 
reptile  house  and  the  keeper  showed  us  some  baby  croco- 
diles and  let  us  hold  one.  It  had  the  funniest  littl^ 
teeth  like  a  tiny  saw,  and  a  white  throat  which  it  can 
close  up  in  the  water,  and  a  film  comes  over  its  eyes 
when  it  likes  just  like  the  shutter  of  a  Brownie.  The 
keeper  said  it  was  a  few  months  old  but  would  very 
likely  live  to  be  a  hundred. 

Then  he  hooked  a  boa  constrictor  out  of  its  cage  and 
asked  us  to  hold  it.  I  was  frightened  at  first  but  after 
Jack  and  the  others  had  held  it  I  tried.  Its  body  feels 
terribly  strong  and  electric  and  all  the  time  it  is  coiling 
about  and  darting  out  a  little  forked  tongue.  I  was  very 
glad  when  the  keeper  took  it  away. 

We  saw  the  diving  birds  being  fed  in  their  tank. 
There  are  two  of  them,  one  in  a  cage  at  each  end,  and 
the  keeper  throws  little  live  fish  into  the  tank  and  lets 
out  one  bird  at  a  time.  At  first  we  were  very  sorry  for 
the  poor  little  fish,  which  swim  about  frantically  in  all 
directions  to  escape  from  the  terrible  great  bird  who 
dashes  after  them  like  a  cruel  submarine ;  but  after  a 
while  we  began  to  want  the  bird  not  to  miss  any.  Isn't 
that  funny?  And  my  brother  Jack  got  so  excited  that 
he  pointed  out  to  the  bird  where  one  of  the  little  fish 
was  hiding  and  cried  out  "Here  he  is,  look,  down  here ! 
Look,  in  the  corner !" 

"Convolvulus" 


[221] 


8  The  Beguiler 


A  FABLE 

There  was  once  a  garden  path  paved  with  flat  stones, 
and  in  between  the  stones  were  little  tufts  of  thyme  and 
other  herbs. 

On  each  side  of  the  path  were  beds  full  of  gay  flowers, 
among  which  was  a  very  vain  geranium,  who,  when  no 
one  was  about,  used  to  mock  the  thyme  because  it  was 
in  such  an  exposed  spot  and  liable  to  be  walked  on. 

"The  proper  place  for  plants,"  the  geranium  said,  "is 
in  a  bed  where  they  are  safe  from  people's  feet  and  are 
treated  with  respect.     Look  at  me !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  thyme,  "but  the  more  I  am  trampled 
on  the  sweeter  I  become  and  the  more  the  lady  who 
planted  me  likes  me.  Haven't  you  seen  her  squeezing 
me  with  her  beautiful  hands  and  then  inhaling  my 
fragrance,  whereas  if  anything  hits  you  you  are  done  for 
for  ever." 

And  at  that  moment  a  tennis  ball,  struck  out  of  the 
court  near  by,  fell  on  the  geranium  and  broke  it  in  two. 

The  moral  is  that  every  one  has  his  own  place  in  life 
and  we  should  mind  our  own  business. 

"Carnation" 


[222] 


The  Beguiler 


CORRESPONDENCE 


To  the  Editor  of  The  Beguiler 

Dear  Madam, — You  ask  me  to  tell  you  what  is  the 
most  depressing  thing  I  ever  heard.  It  was  this.  I  was 
crossing  the  Channel  on  a  rough  day,  feeling  more 
miserable  than  I  can  describe  and  clinging  to  my  deck- 
chair  because  I  knew  that  to  move  would  be  fatal,  when 
two  young  men  passed  me,  in  rude  health  and  spirits, 
both  smoking  large  pipes,  and  I  heard  one  say,  "Person- 
ally, I've  got  no  use  for  a  smooth  sea."  I  can  conceive 
of  nothing  more  offensively  depressing  than  this. 

Hoping  you  can  find  a  place  for  the  "anecdote"  in 
your  bright  little  periodical, — I  am  yours  faithfully, 

Hector  Barrance 


II 

To  the  Editor  of  The  Beguiler 

Dear  Madam, — I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  approved 
of  my  contribution  to  your  last  number.  Being  still 
unable  to  write,  I  again  send  you  something  copied  from 
the  works  of  another.  It  is  a  poem  by  Joyce  Kilmer,  a 
young  American  killed  in  the  war. 
Believe  me,  your  admiring  subscriber, 

Richard  Haven 
X  His  mark 


[223] 


lo  The  Beguiler 

TREES 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  Summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain ; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 


End  of  Number  i  of 
The  Beguiler;  or,  The  Invalid's  Friend 
[224] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


CXXII 

Verena  Raby  to  Evangeline  Barrance 

My  Dear  Editor, — Having  read  your  second 
number  I  feel  so  much  better  that  I  am  confident 
— to  my  distress — that  a  third  will  not  be  needed. 
And  yet  I  should  so  much  like  to  read  many  more. 
I  have  been  moved  to  become  a  poet  myself  and 
write  you  a  testimonial.  After  hours  of  thought 
in  the  watches  of  the  night  I  produced  this  coup- 
let, which  even  though  it  is  not  worthy  to  stand 
beside  Pansy's  historical  ballads  is  sincere: — 

There   was   once   a   successful   Beguiler 
Which  turned  a  sad  dame  to  a  smiler. 

You  are  at  liberty  to  quote  these  lines  in  all 
your  advertisements, — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Constant  Reader 

CXXIII 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  Richard, — I  am  rather  upset  by  a  piece 
of  news  this  morning.  Dr.  Ferguson  came  in  to 
say  that  he  is  going  away  next  week  for  a  month's 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


holiday,  and  I  can  quite  believe  that  he  needs 
one,  for  I  alone  must  have  been  a  great  source  of 
anxiety  to  him — hut  it  was  rather  a  shock.  He 
went  on  to  say  that  he  has  found  a  very  good 
locum;  but  none  the  less  I  am  terrified.  I  can't 
bear  the  thought  of  a  stranger. 

Forgive  this  peevishness,  but  I  am  so  tired  of 
being  helpless. — Yours,  V. 


CXXIV 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  "Uncle," — Aunt  Verena  has  got  it  into 
her  head  that  the  locum  who  is  coming  next  week 
to  take  Dr.  Ferguson's  place  will  not  understand 
her  case  and  she  is  working  herself  into  a  fret 
over  it.  Dr.  Ferguson  assures  me  that  he 
wouldn't  allow  anyone  to  take  his  place  who  is 
not  qualified  in  every  way,  and  he  says  too  that 
Aunt  Verena  ought  for  every  reason  to  be  placid. 
Do  please  write  to  her  to  help  soothe  her  down 
again. — Yours  sincerely,  Nesta. 


[226] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


cxxv 

RiciiARD  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Dearest  Verena,  I  quite  understand  your 
nervousness  about  this  new  doctor,  but  I  think  you 
should  be  more  of  a  gambler  over  it  all.  You 
should  be  more  trustful  of  your  star,  which, 
though  it  (to  my  mind,  very  reprehensively),  al- 
lowed you  to  have  a  horrid  fall,  has  made  things 
as  comfortable  as  possible  since.  Until  I  hear  to 
the  contrary  I  intend  to  think  of  the  new  doctor 
as  a  godsend,  and  a  very  agreeable  change  to  old 
Ferguson,  who  struck  me  as  a  prosy  dog.  Be  an 
optimist,  my  dear. 

The  more  I  think  of  your  money  and  your  char- 
acter, the  more  I  incline  towards  alms-houses, 
which,  in  a  human  non-Nietzschean  country  like 
ours,  I  consider  to  be  among  the  most  satisfactory 
forms  of  sheer  benevolence.  But  I  am  not  wholly 
convinced,  and  I  should  hate  to  see  the  interest  on 
£5'o,ooo  going  in  any  way  astray.  Meanwhile  I 
have  made  notes  on  the  alms-houses  in  this  book. 
But  what  perplexes  me  is  that  these  benevolent 
people  wait  till  they  are  dead.    It  would  be  far 

[227] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


more  fun  to  have  alms-houses  while  one  was  alive 
and  watch  them  at  work. 

Here  is  an  essay  on  the  death  of  an  imaginary 
grandmother  which  little  Mary  Landseer  has  pro- 
duced. The  death  of  one's  grandmother  had  been 
set,  by  an  almost  too  whimsical  instructress,  as 
the  subject  of  a  composition: — 

"One  day,  I  think  it  was  the  hapiest  day  in  the 
world  for  me.  My  Granmother  died  and  left 
me  £50.  Without  waiting  to  morn  or  wait  for 
her  funral  I  was  walking  along  Oxford  St.  in 
surch  of  things  to  buy.  My  heart  was  as  light  as 
a  feather  as  I  walked  and  my  boots  were  up  in 
the  ere. 

"First  I  thought  of  what  my  Husband  would 
like  me  to  have,  then  with  a  suden  thought  I 
turned  my  steps  home-would,  and  that  night  I 
went  to  a  play,  the  next  a  nother,  and  so  I  went 
on  till  I  had  only  10s.  left.  Then  how  I  wished 
my  other  Granmother  was  died,  but  it  was  no 
good.  And  when  I  had  children  I  wished  I  had 
not  been  so  rash  as  to  spend  it  on  abusments,  but 
had  saved  it,  but  it  was  gone  for  ever  and  my 
other  Granmother  never  died,  to  my  grat  misfor- 
tune." 

[228] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


It  was  Mary's  father  who  wrote  that  exquisite 
thing  to  a  Vicereine  in  India.  "I  wash  your  feet 
with  my  hair,"  he  said  at  the  end  of  a  letter,  em- 
ploying an  Indian  phrase  of  courtesy,  adding,  "It 
is  true  that  I  have  very  little  hair,  but  then  you 
have  very  little  feet." 

Behold  the  punctual  poem: — 

There  is  a  flower  I  wish  to  wear, 

But  not  until  first  worn  by  you — 
Heartsease — of  all  earth's  flowers  most  rare; 

Bring  it ;  and  bring  enough  for  two. 

Good  night,  R.  H. 

CXXVI 

Emily  Goodyer  to  Nesta  Rossiter 

Dear  Madam, — This  is  to  let  you  know  with 
my  respects  that  the  children  are  quite  well  and 
happy.  The  puppy  which  Mr.  Hawkes  gave 
them  takes  up  a  deal  of  their  time  and  Miss  Tony 
is  busy  collecting  flowers  for  a  prize  which  her 
uncle  has  offered  her.  Master  Cyril  is  not  biting 
his  nails  so  much  since  I  tried  the  bitter  aloes. 

I  am  sorry  to  have  to  incommode  you,  but  I 
wish  to  give  a  month's  notice,  not  through  any 
fault  that  I  have  to  find  with  the  place,  which 

[229] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


has  always  been  most  comfortable  and  consid- 
erate, but  because  Mr.  Urible  has  now  come  back 
from  Mesopotamia  and  been  demobbed  and  he 
wants  to  be  married  at  once.  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred to  walk  out  a  little  longer,  as  I  feel  I  should 
like  to  know  more  of  Bert  now  he  has  been  in  the 
Army,  as  soldiers  can  be  so  different  from  green- 
grocers, which  is  the  way  I  used  to  know  him  be- 
fore the  War,  but  he  is  very  firm  about  it  and  I 
don't  feel  that  I  have  the  right,  after  being  en- 
gaged so  long,  to  refuse.  That  is  why  dear  Ma- 
dam I  have  to  give  notice  and  not  through  any 
complaint  or  dissatisfaction. 

I  am  very  sorry  for  it,  because  I  am  very  fond 
of  the  children  and  I  know  that  it  is  difficult  to 
find  nursemaids  now,  but  Mr.  Urible  is  so  firm 
that  I  can't  do  anything  else.  I  think  you  would 
like  to  know  that  he  has  grown  much  broader 
while  in  the  Army  and  is  a  far  finer  figure  of  a 
man  than  he  was  when  he  joined  up.  He  has 
two  medals. — I  am,  with  respect,  your  faithful 
servant, 

Emily  Goodyer 


[230] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


CXXVII 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Emily  Goodyer 

Dear  Emily, — Your  letter  came  as  a  surprise: 
not  because  I  was  not  expecting  you  some  day  to 
marry,  but  because  I  was  trusting  to  you  to  keep 
everything  at  Combehurst  going  until  Miss  Raby 
was  well  enough  to  spare  me.  Believe  me  that 
I  am  very  glad  that  you  have  Urible  safely  back 
again,  but  without  wanting  for  a  moment  to  in- 
terfere with  your  plans  I  do  most  earnestly  wish 
tRat  you  could  postpone  your  wedding  for  a  few 
weeks.  Having  waited  so  long  would  not  Urible 
— and  you — be  willing  to  wait  a  little  longer? 
Would  not  you?  You  have  been  such  a  comfort 
to  us  for  so  long,  being  so  trustworthy  and  under- 
standing, that  I  am  distracted  when  I  think  of 
finding  anyone  else,  especially  in  these  times. 
Miss  Raby  still  needs  me  constantly  and  I  cannot 
bear  to  abandon  her  now.  May  I  think  of  you 
as  being  prepared  to  stay  another  three  months? 
— I  am,  yours  sincerely,  Nesta  Rossiter 


[231] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


CXXVIII 

Emily  Goodyer  to  Nesta  Rossiter 

Dear  Madam, — I  have  read  your  letter  several 
times  and  I  have  shown  it  to  Mr.  Urible.  We 
both  feel  the  same  about  it;  we  feel  that  we  have 
waited  long  enough,  especially  Bert  with  all  the 
dreadful  things  in  Mesopotamia  to  put  up  with, 
the  thermometer  sometimes  being  over  120  and 
sometimes  below  freezing  in  a  few  hours.  But 
we  want  to  do  what  is  right  and  what  Mr.  Urible 
suggests  with  his  respects  to  you  Madam  is  that 
we  should  be  married  as  soon  as  possible,  as  ar- 
ranged, but  that,  until  you  come  back  in  three 
months  or  before,  I  should  continue  to  be  the  chil- 
dren's nurse  by  day.  Mr.  Urible  is  taking  over 
Parsons's  shop  and  garden  in  the  village  and  we 
should  live  there.  There  are  three  nice  rooms  and 
a  good  kitchen  and  scullery,  and  no  doubt  a  neigh- 
bour will  cook  Bert's  meals  for  him.  Dear  Ma- 
dam we  are  very  wishful  to  oblige  you  but  Mr. 
Urible  feels  that  after  all  he  has  been  through  in 

[232] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


Mesopotamia  it  isn't  right  that  he  should  be  kept 
waiting  any  longer. — I  am,  yours  respectfully, 

Emily  Goodyer 

CXXIX 

Herbert  Urible  to  Nesta  Rossiter 

Dear  Madam,  Mrs.  Rossiter, — Pray  excuse 
me  writing  but  I  wish  you  to  understand  my  posi- 
tion with  regard  to  Miss  Goodyer,  who  has  been 
a  good  nurse  to  your  children.  It  is  not  as  selfish 
as  you  think.  Miss  Goodyer  and  I  were  to  have 
married  four  years  ago  but  then  came  the  con- 
scription and  it  was  impossible.  While  I  was 
away  she  promised  to  marry  me  directly  there 
was  Peace,  but  I  couldn't  get  demobbed  till  a  lit- 
tle while  ago,  which  means  further  delay,  and 
now  she  says  that  you  have  asked  her  to  put  me 
off  again.  Pray  pardon  me,  dear  madam,  but  I 
don't  think  this  is  fair  of  you,  or  that  it  shows  the 
right  feeling  for  a  soldier  who  comes  out  of  the 
War  a  good  deal  worse  off  than  he  went  in.  While 
I  have  been  away  fighting  for  my  country  my 
business  has  gone  to  other  people  and  now  I  am 
asked  to  wait  longer  for  my  wife.     Pardon  me, 

[233] 


VERF.NA    IN    THE    MIDST 


madam,  but  I  don't  think  it  is  fair.     A  man  has 
his  feelings  and  rights. 

Awaiting  your  reply, — I  am,  yours  respectfully, 

Herbert  Uriblb 

cxxx 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Herbert  Urible 

Dear  Mr.  Urible, — I  quite  understand  and 
agree.  Perhaps  you  could  lend  me  Mrs.  Urible 
by  day  just  a  little  while  until  Miss  Raby  is  well. 
That  would  be  very  kind  of  you. 

I  hope  that  you  and  Emily  will  be  very  happy. 
— Yours  sincerely,  Nesta  Rossiter 

CXXXI 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Hazel  Bar.rance 

Dear  Hazel, — I  am  in  a  bother  over  our  nice 
faithful  Emily,  who  wants  to  be  married  but  is 
willing  to  go  on  looking  after  the  children  by  day 
until  I  can  leave  Aunt  Verena.  I  don't  care  about 
that  kind  of  arrangement  very  much ;  a  nurse  with 
a  husband  living  near  by  is  a  nurse  spoiled,  I 
should  guess;  but  it  is  better  than  nothing.  As^ 
[234] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


however,  the  children  might  need  things  in  the 
night,  I  am  hoping  you  can  find  me  a  new  nurse 
at  once.  You  are  always  so  clever.  1  wrote  to 
our  regular  Registry  Office,  of  course,  but  they  tell 
me  that  there  isn't  anything  on  their  books  at  the 
moment.  Could  you  possibly  go  round  to  some  of 
the  other  places? — Yours  distractedly.    Nesta. 

cxxxu 

Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

Dear  Richard, — I  am  prepared  to  wear  a 
white  sheet  and  eat  humble  pie,  great  slices  of  it 
and  a  second  helping.  The  terrible  locum  arrived 
this  morning  and  I  like  him  and  feel  that  he  is 
clever  and  to  be  trusted.  His  name  is  Field  and 
he  is  young,  not  more  than  twenty-six  I  should 
say.  He  is  a  Bart's  man,  like  Dr.  Ferguson,  and 
has  been  in  France,  doing  exceUent  work. — Yours, 

V. 

CXXXIII 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Nesta  Rossiter 

You  simpleton,  thinking  you  can  get  a  nurse 
in  Peace-time.     There  isn't  such  a  thing  in  the 

[235] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


world — not  under  £50  a  year.  How  silly  we  all 
were  not  to  take  a  leaf  out  of  the  Darlings'  book 
and  train  Newfoundland  dogs  I — only  they  would 
have  to  be  muzzled  to-day.  If  I  were  you  I 
should  let  your  Emily  have  her  way — it's  only 
for  a  few  weeks — and  make  Fred  do  more.  Surely 
if  the  children  want  anything  in  the  night,  he 
could  get  it. — Yours  always,  Hazel 

P.S. — Father  is  rejoicing  in  a  seance  story 
which  was  told  him  at  the  Club.  Communication 
was  at  last  set  up  with  the  spirit  of  an  old  Ceylon 
judge  whose  life  had  been  by  no  means  one  of 
restraint.  All  that  he  would  say  to  the  medium 
was,  "I'm  a  dashed  sight  more  comfortable  than 
I  ever  expected  to  be." 

CXXXIV 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Hazel  Barrance 

O  FOOLISH  virgin,  how  little  you  know  of  men, 
or  at  any  rate  of  Fred!  Once  he  is  asleep  no 
noise  in  this  world  can  wake  him,  and  as  for  get- 
ting things,  he  can  get  nothing.  He  is  a  pet,  but 
no  one  ever  took  such  advantage  of  that  aloof- 

[236] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


ness  from  domestic  co-operation  which  so  many 
men  consider  their  right.  In  his  attitude  to  the 
children  he  is  a  mixture  of  a  connoisseur  and  a 
comedian.  He  is  either  admiring  them — against 
backgrounds,  sesthetically,  as  though  they  were 
porcelain  or  almond  blossom,  or  physically,  as 
though  they  were  prize  puppies — or  he  is  using 
them  as  foils  for  his  jokes.  It  is  all  very  delight- 
ful and  we  are  a  happy  family,  but  it  makes  me 
smile  when  you  suggest  that  he  could  take  the 
place  of  Emily  in  any  capacity  whatever.  Chil- 
dren, he  thinks,  should  be  both  seen  and  heard, 
which  shows  that  he  is  a  modern  enough  parent, 
but  they  should  be  seen  only  when  they  are  pic- 
turesque and  heard  only  when  they  are  gay.  This 
being  so,  please  go  on  trying  to  find  a  nurse. 
There  is  always  one  leaving.  Every  day  hun- 
dreds of  children  must  grow  out  of  nurses. — 
Yours,  Nesta 


[237] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


cxxxv 

Bryan  Field  to  Clemency  Power 
[By  hand] 

Dear  Miss  Power, — I  must  confess  that  I  had 
hoped  to  get  to  Herefordshire,  but  no  more.  The 
rest  is  Chance,  dear  beautiful  Chance. 

And  how  did  I  discover  that  you  were  here  too*? 
I  saw  you  in  the  garden  from  Miss  Raby's  win- 
dow and  asked.  Please  send  me  a  word  of  par- 
don. I  should  never  try  to  influence  Destiny. — 
I  am,  yours  sincerely,  Bryan  Field 

CXXXVI 

Clemency  Power  to  Bryan  Field 
[By  hand] 

Dear  Mr.  Field, — I  am  glad  that  Hereford- 
shire is  so  small  and  that  the  long  arm  of  coinci- 
dence has  not  shortened.  I  am  even  more  glad 
that  it  is  you  who  are  to  take  care  of  Miss  Raby. 
— I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Clemency  Power 

[238] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


CXXXVII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  I  have  no  posthumous  activities  to 
recommend  to-day,  having  just  returned  from  a 
temple  consecrated  to  youth,  where,  but  for  its 
antiquity  and  its  Roll  of  Honour,  no  one  would 
think  of  death.    I  mean  Winchester. 

My  sister's  boy  is  there  and  I  went  down  for 
the  day  to  see  him:  a  nice  candid  jolly  boy. 

I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  a  charm 
about  an  old  public  school  greater  than  that  of 
a  university.  The  boy  is  more  engaging  than  the 
youth :  he  may  have  "side"  and  affectation  among 
his  contemporaries,  but  with  a  much  older  man 
such  as  I  am  he  is  himself  in  a  way  that  the  un^ 
dergraduate  seldom  is.  The  undergraduate's  whole 
desire  is  so  often  to  be  taken  for  a  man,  whereas 
the  schoolboy  at  most  would  like  to  approximate 
to  an  undergraduate. 

Of  all  the  schools  that  I  know  none  is  so  at- 
tractive as  this.  Its  age,  its  traditions,  its  beauty, 
alone  would  single  it  out :  but  I  am  taken  with  its 
spirit  too.    When  I  go  to  see  Dick  I  naturally 

[239] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


meet  many  of  his  school-fellows ;  and  I  find  a  can- 
dour and  friendliness  which  is  a  strange  contrast 
to  the  social  reserves  of  boys  from  other  schools 
I  could  name.  I  don't  know  whether  the  whole 
school  is  similarly  fortunate,  but  in  Dick's  house 
there  is  a  door-opening,  door-closing  and  passing- 
the-salt  tendency  which  I  fancy  is  often  bad  form 
elsewhere.  To  talk  with  the  immature  man  is 
never  easy,  wherever  you  find  him,  and  my  incli- 
nation would  always  be  to  jump  the  gulf  that  is 
fixed  between  real  childhood  and  real  manhood; 
but  Dick's  companions  are  easier. 

Nephews  and  uncles  go  through  strange  vicissi- 
tudes. At  first  the  uncle  is  an  imposing  creature 
who  appears  but  rarely  and  when  he  does  must 
be  treated  with  respect  and  called  Uncle  on  every 
occasion.  And  then  as  the  boy  grows  older  and 
understands  the  powers  and  possibilities  of  half- 
crowns  the  uncle  takes  on  a  god-like  mien.  And 
then,  older  still,  he  meets  him  on  more  equal 
terms;  which  get  more  and  more  equal  until  the 
time  comes  when  he  discovers  that  this  once  re- 
markable person  is  nothing  but  a  fogey  and  a 
bore.  Some  uncles,  before  this  last  stage  is 
reached,  attach  themselves  to  their  nephews  as 
[240] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


eatellites  or  boon  companions  and  vie  with  them 
in  youthfulness,  but  I  am  not  likely  ever  to  do 
that. 

The  relations  of  son  and  father  have  somewhat 
similar  stages,  but  there  is  as  a  rule  too  close  a 
tie  there  to  permit  of  the  half-contemptuous  easy 
terms  on  which  nephew  and  uncle  often  rub  along. 
Dick  is  a  good  boy  and  should  do  well.  I  watched 
him  this  afternoon  longing  to  hit  out  but  knowing 
that  the  game  demanded  self-repression,  and  ad- 
mired him  and  saw  earnest  of  sound  citizenship 
in  it. 

The  next  thing  is  to  make  sure  he  gets  into 
my  dear  Bannister's  College  at  Cambridge. 

But,  Verena,  how  glorious  to  be  a  boy!  And 
yet  how  comforting,  now  and  then,  to  be  old 
enough  to  be  useful  to  the  young — when  they 
will  let  us  I — Good  night,  R.  H. 

The  poem : — 

Why  do  our  joys  depart 
For  cares  to  seize  the  heart? 
I  know  not.     Nature  says, 
Obey ;  and  man  obeys. 
I  see,  and  know  not  why 
Thorns  live  and  roses  die. 

W.  S.  Landor 


[241] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


CXXXVIII 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Nesta  Rossiter 

My  Dear  Nesta, — I  have  had  a  brain-wave. 
Why  should  not  I  go  down  to  Combehurst  until 
you  are  free  again  and  sleep  near  the  children 
and  let  Emily  go  on  attending  to  them  by  day, 
as  she  suggests,  and  keep  an  eye  on  her?  I  am 
willing  to.  This  would  also  liberate  Fred  for  his 
Dormy  House,  whither  he  could  lug  his  clubs  with 
a  clear  conscience.  If  you  accept  this  offer,  don't 
overwhelm  me  with  gratitude,  because  I  shall  be 
pleasing  m)^self  more  than  anything  else,  this 
abode  being  at  the  moment  a  most  suitable  one 
to  leave. 

Father's  sarcasms  have  had  very  high  velocity 
of  late.  He  said  this  morning,  for  example, 
apropos  of  a  very  harmless  young  man  who 
brought  me  i;ack  from  the  theatre  and  whom  I 
was  foolish  enough  to  ask  in  for  a  whisky  and 
soda,  that  if  girls  looked  at  men  with  the  eyes  of 
men  the  world  would  come  to  an  end,  because 
there  would  be  no  marriages.  I  replied  that  I 
supposed  the  effect  would  not  be  far  different  if 
[242] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


men  looked  at  women  with  the  eyes  of  women; 
which  he  would  of  course  have  himself  included  if 
he  was  not  eager  to  score  off  me.  Not  that  this 
young  man  had  any  more  designs  on  me  than  the 
rest  of  his  sex.  (I  don't  count  Horace.)  Never 
was  a  girl  so  unembarrassed  by  suitors  as  I  or 
more  willing  to  be  so.  But  it  is  part  of  father's 
humour  to  pretend  that  I  hunt  them  and  that  I 
catch  only  the  most  detrimental.  How  he  would 
behave  if  I  really  got  engaged  I  often  wonder. 
Probably  he  would  play  the  game. 

Write  as  soon  as  you  can — or  telegraph  if  you 
like. — Yours,  Hazel 

CXXXIX 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Hazel  Barrance 

Darling  Hazel, — You  are  an  angel  to  come 
to  the  rescue  like  this  and  I  accept  gladly.  Fred 
will  be  so  much  relieved  too,  and  I  am  sure  he 
deserves  his  holiday. — Yours,  Nesta 

P.S. — Quite  a  lot  of  young  men  have,  from 
time  to  time,  been  seen  in  the  neighbourhood. 


[243] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


CXL 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Lady  Sandys 

Dear  Agatha, — My  cousin  Hazel  Barrancc  is 
going  to  look  after  the  children  and  Emily — who, 
as  you  probably  know,  is  about  to  marry  Urible 
— until  I  come  back.  (Fred  is  off  to  his  golf.) 
It  is  very  sporting  of  her  and  I  want  you  to  sec 
that  she  has  a  little  amusement.  She  plays  tennis 
too  well  and  pretends  to  hate  men,  so  everything 
is  easy  for  you.  I  long  to  get  back  again.  Kiss 
your  fat  Barbara  for  me. — Yours,  Nesta 

CXLI 

Lady  Sandys  to  Nesta  Rossiter  - 

Dear  Nesta, — I  will  do  what  I  can  for  your 
cousin.  Jack  is  bringing  several  of  his  friends 
down  for  a  home-made  lawn-tennis  tournament 
next  week-end;  and  that  will  be  a  start.  Two 
or  three  of  the  Wimbledon  tournament  players 
will  be  among  them,  we  hope. 

Your  Tony  and  Cyril  were  here  yesterday,  and 
in  consequence  the  garden  hasn't  a  single  trace  of 
fruit  left. — Yours,  Agatha 

[244] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


CXLII 

Roy  Barrance  to  Clemency  Power 

Dear  Miss  Power, — Please  don't  be  angry 
with  this  letter,  but  I  can't  help  writing  it.  I  can't 
think  of  anything  but  you,  and  above  all  the  Lon- 
don traffic,  even  the  motor  buses  and  the  W.D. 
lorries,  I  hear  the  music  of  your  lovely  Irish  voice. 
I  want  to  say  that  I  worship  you  and  if  you  care 
the  least  little  bit  about  me  I  am  yours  at  your 
feet  to  do  as  you  like  with.  I  haven't  been  much 
of  a  success  so  far,  but  with  you  to  help  me  and 
order  me  about  I  could  do  anything.  Aunt  Ve- 
rena  is  buying  me  a  share  in  a  new  concern  di- 
rectly, and  I  am  sure  she  would  adore  it  if  you 
were  her  niece,  though  only  by  marriage.  Don't 
answer  this  at  once,  but  give  me  the  benefit  of 
thinking  me  over  from  every  point  of  view.  Of 
course  you  may  be  engaged  already,  or  you  may 
actively  dislike  me,  and  in  this  case  I  must  ask 
you  to  forgive  me  for  writing,  but  I  couldn't  help 
it.     If  you  could  see  yourself  and  hear  yourself 

[245] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


speak  you  would  understand  why. — Your  abject 
admirer,  Roy  Barrance 

P.S. — Please  answer  at  once  and  put  me  out 
of  my  misery. 

CXLIII 

Roy  Barrance  to  Clemency  Power 

[Telegram] 

Don't  reply  to  letter  am  coming  by  afternoon 
train. 

CXLIV 

Septimus  Tribe  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Sister, — It  is  seldom  enough  that 
we  hear  from  you  direct,  but  news  gets  into  cir- 
culation in  very  curious  ways  and  it  was  the  odd- 
est chance  which  informed  me  that  you  may  be 
losing  the  services  of  Nesta  as  a  companion  during 
your  very  regrettable  indisposition.  Letitia  is  so 
much  stronger  than  she  was,  thanks  to  the  nour- 
ishing delicacies  which  the  strictest  economy  in 
my  own  personal  needs  has  made  it  possible  for 

[246] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


me  to  obtain  for  her,  that  she  is  now  perfectly 
fitted  to  be  at  your  side — where,  being  your  sis- 
ter, she  ought  to  be — and  I  hereby  offer  our  serv- 
ices. I  say  "our"  for  she  would  not  care  to  come 
alone,  and  I  could,  I  am  convinced,  be  useful  and 
stimulating  in  very  many  ways.  I  am  not  sur- 
prised that  Nesta  should  be  leaving  you.  If  the 
stories  that  I  hear  of  the  wildness  of  those  un- 
mothered  children  of  hers  are  true,  it  is  more  than 
time  that  she  returned  to  her  home.  A  mother's 
first  duty  is  to  her  brood.  The  ties  uniting  aunt 
and  niece  are  of,  comparatively,  negligible  slen- 
demess.  Where  there  is,  as  alas!  in  your  case, 
no  husband,  a  sister  has  the  first  claim  to  nourish 
and  protect.  Awaiting  your  reply, — I  am,  your 
affectionate  brother-in-law, 

Septimus  Tribe 

CXLV 

Nesta  Rossiter  to  Septimus  Tribe 

Dear  Uncle  Septimus, — You  will  be  pleased 
to  know  that  I  have  arranged  to  stay  on  with 
Aunt  Verena.  Please  give  my  love  to  Aunt 
Letitia. — Yours  sincerely,  Nesta 

[247] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


CXLVI 

Roy  Barrance  to  his  sister  Hazel 

Darling  Hazel,  Old  Thing, — Wish  me  luck 
because  I  am  starting  out  on  the  biggest  enter- 
prise of  my  life.  What  a  pity  we  are  not  Roman 
Catholics  and  then  you  could  burn  candles  for  me. 
I  am  going  down  to  Aunt  Verena's  to  propose  to 
Clemency  Power,  that  divine  Irish  girl.  I  wrote 
to  her  last  night  but  I'm  such  a  rotten  letter-writer 
that  I'm  going  down  to  see  her  in  person  and 
learn  my  fate.  I  even  tried  to  get  the  letter  back, 
but  postmen  are  so  rottenly  honest.  I  waited  for 
hours  in  the  rain  for  the  pillar-box  to  be  emptied 
and  offered  him  two  pounds  and  an  old  overcoat, 
but  all  he  did  was  to  threaten  to  call  a  policeman. 
If  she  accepts  me  I  shall  be  the  luckiest  man  on 
earth  and  there's  nothing  I  shan't  be  able  to  do. 
You'll  see.  But  if  she  turns  me  down  I  don't 
know  what  will  happen.  I  shall  probably  become 
a  film-actor  in  broken-hearted  stories.  Lots  of 
people  have  said  I  have  the  right  kind  of  mobile 
face  for  the  movies,  and  really  there's  nothing 
infra  dig  in  it.     Clemency  is  two  or  three  years 

[248] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


older  than  I  am,  but  I  think  that's  all  to  the  good. 
What  I  need  is  a  steadying  hand.  You  will  adore 
her. — Yours  ever,  Roy 

CXLVII 

Roy  Barrance  to  his  sister  Hazel 

Darling  Old  Thing, — It  is  no  good.  I  am 
down  and  out.  The  whole  thing  has  been  a  fail- 
ure. .  To  begin  with,  I  had  a  hell  of  a  journey,  full 
of  hopes  and  fears  alternately.  In  the  taxi  at  Pad- 
dington  I  felt  full  of  buck  and  then  while  waiting 
for  the  train  to  start  I  knew  I  was  a  goner.  At 
Reading  I  began  to  have  hopes  again  and  at  Swin- 
don I  wasn't  worth  two-pence-halfpenny.  At 
Newport  I  nearly  got  out  and  came  back  and  at 
Hereford  I  had  a  big  whisky  and  soda  and  was 
confident  once  more.  But  all  the  way  from  the 
station  to  the  house  I  just  sweated. 

The  very  first  thing  I  saw  as  I  came  up  the 
drive  was  Clemenc)^  playing  tennis  with  the  new 
Doctor,  and  my  heart  sank  like  a  U  boat  into  my 
socks.  I  knew  in  my  bones  that  everything  was 
up;  and  I  was  right.  Whether  or  not  Clemency 
is  booked,  I  don't  know,  but  she  won't  have  me. 

[249] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


She  was  as  nice  as  she  could  be,  and  her  voice 
drove  me  frantic  every  time  she  spoke,  but  she 
held  out  no  hope.  I  expect  the  sawbones  will  get 
her,  he's  the  kind  of  quiet,  assured,  efficient  card 
that  a  flighty  blighter  like  me  would  never  have  a 
chance  against.  And  he's  nobbled  the  whole  place. 
Aunt  Verena  thinks  he's  It. 

I  stuck  it  for  two  days  and  then  I  made  an  ex- 
cuse and  came  away.  And  now,  what  do  you 
think  I'm  doing?  I'm  a  railway  porter.  I  carry 
people's  luggage  at  Paddington  and  tell  them 
when  the  train  starts  for  Thingumbob — if  ever  it 
does — and  what  time  the  train  comes  in  from 
Stick-in-the-mud.  I  was  going  to  Ireland  to  fish 
and  try  to  forget — Clemency  told  me  of  a  place 
called  Curragh  Lake — but  the  strike  came  and  put 
the  lid  on  that  for  the  moment.  The  joke  is  that 
the  old  ladies  all  want  to  know  what  lord  I  am 
— as  the  papers  have  given  them  the  idea  that  at 
Paddington  there  are  only  noblemen  helping. — 
Your  broken-hearted  Roy 


[250] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


cxLvni 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Verena,  I  think  that  we  may  all 
feel  happier  than  we  were  doing.  Even  if  Old 
England  stands  not  quite  where  she  did,  the  bull- 
dog breed  is  not  extinct.  The  way  in  which  the 
nation  has  taken  the  railway  trouble,  and  the 
lightning  efficiency  of  the  food  distributing  ar- 
rangements, should  put  dismay  into  enemy  hearts 
— and  under  the  word  enemy  I  include  Allies  and 
rivals — and  renew  our  own  individual  and  cor- 
porate ambition  and  national  spirit.  In  that  way 
the  Strike  may  be  said  to  have  been  a  blessing  in 
disguise,  although  industrially  it  has  been  a  calam- 
ity. It  may  also  make  people  look  a  little  more 
narrowly  at  their  pence,  which  is  what  we  shall 
all  have  to  do  before  long. 

The  oddest  things  happened,  not  the  least  of 
which  I  heard  of  yesterday,  when  one  of  the  few 
K.C.'s  whom  it  is  my  privilege  to  know  showed  me 
on  his  watch  chain  the  shilling  which  liad  been 
given  him,  in  his  capacity  as  a  porter  at  Victoria, 

[251] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


by  his  butcher,  all  unconscious  of  his  identity,  as 
a  tip  for  helping  with  the  family  luggage  on  their 
return  from  the  South  Coast.  The  K.C.  said 
nothing  at  the  time,  except  Thank  you,  but  when 
things  are  a  little  quieter  he  is  going  to  show  it  to 
his  purveyor  of  indifferent  Peace-time  joints  and 
enjoy  a  good  laugh  with  him. 

I  have  been  wondering  if  alms-houses  for  the 
rich  are  not  more  important  than  for  the  poor. 
On  all  sides  I  hear  of  old  widowed  ladies  who, 
needing  homes,  or  companions,  spend  their  time 
in  visiting  one  married  daughter  or  married  son 
after  another,  when  they  would  be  far  happier  in 
a  little  colony  like  Hampton  Court.  Couldn't 
you  do  something  for  them*?  But  you  would  have 
to  be  very  careful.  If  any  suspicion  of  charity 
got  about,  the  whole  scheme  would  fail.  So  you 
could  not  put  them  together,  even  in  the  most 
exquisite  little  garden-village  homes.  They  would 
have  to  be  isolated.  At  what  point  in  the  social 
scale  a  necessitous  old  lady  ceases  to  be  willing 
to  have  her  necessity  known,  I  cannot  say;  but 
certainly  those  who  suffer  most  from  it  would 
least  like  it  published. 

Old  gentlemen  don't  mind  becoming  Brothers 
[252] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


of  the  Charterhouse,  but  what  about  their  Sisters? 
I  doubt  it. 

Only  therefore  by  the  exercise  of  great  secrecy 
could  you  benefit  them. 

And  have  you  ever  thought  of  the  men  who  are 
tossed  up  and  down  all  day  and  all  night  on  light- 
ships'? To  keep  others  safe.  What  a  life  and 
what  opportunities  to  the  philanthropist  I 

Here  is  the  poem,  which,  I  trust,  is  not  too 
sad: — 

You  come  not,  as  aforetime,  to  the  headstone  every  day, 
And  I,  who  died,  I  do  not  chide  because,  my  friend,  you 

Only,  in  playing,  think  of  him  who  once  was  kind  and 

dear. 
And  if  you  see  a  beauteous  thing,  just  say,  he  is  not  here. 

Always  "a  votre  service^''  as  the  nice  French  offi- 
cials say  in  the  South,  R.  H. 


CXLIX 

Hazel  Barrance  to  Nesta  Rossiter 

My  Dear  Nesta, — You  needn't  worry  about 
things  here.    They  are  going  very  smoothly.   Lit- 

[253] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


tie  Stomach-aches  and  trifles  like  that;  nothing 
more. 

I  had  an  unexpected  and  not  too  welcome  vis- 
itor yesterday  in  the  somewhat  Gothic  shape  of 
Horace  Mun-Brown,  who  had  discovered  from 
Evangeline  where  I  was.  He  stayed  to  lunch — 
your  food  and  drink — and  talked  exclusively  of 
himself  and  his  creative  brain,  both  of  which  he 
again  laid  at  my  feet.  I  suppose  some  men  like 
the  sensation  of  being  turned  down,  but  I  feel 
somehow  that  I  should  hate  it.  I  mean  as  a  habit 
— and  by  the  same  person.  Perhaps  the  shock 
to  Horace's  egoism  is  a  kind  of  stimulant  and  he 
goes  off  and  is  more  creative  than  ever.  At  any 
rate  he  went  away  with  his  absurd  head  high  in 
the  air  and  what  is  called  a  confident  tread,  and 
this  morning  came  a  long  letter  about  his  latest 
scheme,  which  is  to  run  a  theatre  called  The  Poly- 
glot for  plays  in  foreign  languages,  in  order  to  get 
the  patronage  of  the  various  foreign  residents  in 
London.  One  week  a  Greek  play,  for  the  Greek 
colony,  then  an  Italian,  for  the  Italian,  then  a 
Russian,  then  an  American,  and  so  forth.  But 
he  can  carry  this  fatiguing  project  through  suc- 
cessfully only  if  he  has  my  wifely  co-operation 
[254] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


and,  I  suppose,  the  necessary  capital.  But  it  is  the 
wifely  co-operation  that  he  insists  upon  and  that 
I  most  cordially  resent. 

Mrs.  Urible  is  now  more  punctual  and  does  not 
leave  so  early. 

Poor  Roy  has  just  written  to  me  about  his 
broken  heart.  O  that  Irish  syren  I  But  his  heart 
mends  very  quickly. 

I  am  bidden  to  tennis  at  Lady  Sandys'  on  Sun- 
day. Some  real  Wimbledon  men  who  have  en- 
gaged in  mixed  doubles  with  the  marvellous 
Lenglen.    This  is  too  exciting. — Yours, 

Hazel 

CL 
Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  ghost  story 
that  the  distinguished  Orientalist  told  Bemerton 
and  Bemerton  told  me.  I  shall  tell  it  as  though 
I  myself  were  the  owner  of  the  fatal  jewel — for 
that  is  the  motif. 

We  begin  with  the  Indian  Mutiny,  when  a 
British  soldier  broke  into  a  temple  and  wrenched 
the  jewel  from  the  forehead  of  a  god.    This  jewel 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


passed  into  the  hands  of  my  grandfather  and  then 
my  father  and  gradually  reached  me.  It  was  of  a 
remarkable  beauty — a  huge  ruby — but  beyond 
keeping  it  in  a  box  in  the  dining-room  and  show- 
ing it  occasionally  to  guests,  I  gave  little  thought 
to  my  new  possession. 

Neither  my  grandfather  nor  father  had  been  too 
prosperous,  and  from  the  moment  the  stone  be- 
came mine  I  began  to  experience  reverses — not 
very  serious,  but  continuous.  It  was  a  long  time 
before  I  suspected  any  connection  between  these 
little  calamities  and  the  jewel,  but  gradually  I  be- 
gan to  do  so.  One  evening  I  received  a  shock. 
Several  people  were  dining  with  me  and  suddenly 
the  servant  put  a  piece  of  paper  in  my  hand  on 
which  one  of  the  guests  had  written  "Am  I  dream- 
ing, or  is  there  really  a  Hindoo  sitting  on  the 
floor  behind  you?  Nobody  else  seems  to  notice 
him."  On  my  asking  him  about  it  afterwards  he 
said  that  the  Hindoo  was  scrabbling  on  the  ground 
as  though  digging  a  hole  with  his  nails  and  that 
he  had  a  very  malignant  expression.  From  time 
to  time  two  or  three  other  people,  all  unaware  of 
the  legend,  wondered  if  there  was  not  a  figure  of 
this  kind  in  the  room,  and  I  began  to  get  nervous. 

[256] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


I  told  the  Story  to  a  friend  who  knows  more  about 
India  than  any  one  living.  "I  should  get  rid  of 
that  stone,"  he  said.  "It's  dangerous.  But  you 
must  be  quit  of  it  scientifically." 

I  must  take  it,  he  told  me,  to  one  of  the  Thames 
bridges  and  throw  it  into  the  river  at  dead  low 
tide. 

With  the  assistance  of  the  almanack  we  ascer- 
tained the  exact  moment  and  I  dropped  it  over. 
Then  I  went  home  with  a  light  heart. 

Three  months  later  a  man  called  to  see  me. 
He  knew,  he  said,  that  I  was  interested  in  Orien- 
tal curiosities  and  he  had  a  very  remarkable  one 
to  show  me.  A  ruby.  It  had  been  dredged  up 
from  the  Thames  and  he  had  heard  of  the  work- 
man who  had  found  it  and  had  bought  it  and  now 
gave  me  the  first  offer.  It  was,  of  course,  the 
stone.  Well,  I  recognize  fate  when  I  meet  it,  and 
I  bought  it  back.    Kismet. 

But  although  I  was  willing  still  to  own  it,  if 
such  was  the  notion  of  destiny,  I  was  against 
keeping  it  at  home  any  more.  So  I  procured  a 
metal  box  and  wrapped  up  the  jewel  and  sealed 
it  and  locked  the  box  and  sealed  that  and  de- 
posited it  at  my  Bank  in  the  City,  where  it  was 

[257] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


placed  in  one  of  the  strong  rooms.  That  was  only 
a  little  while  ago. 

Last  week  I  had  occasion  to  visit  the  bank  to 
consult  the  manager  on  some  point  of  business. 
After  we  had  finished  we  chatted  awhile.  Look- 
ing round  at  the  girls  at  the  desks — all  called  in 
to  take  the  place  of  the  male  clerks  who  had  gone 
to  the  War,  and  many  of  them  kept  on, — I  asked 
him  how  they  compared  in  efficiency  with  the  men. 

He  said  that  generally  they  were  not  so  good. 
They  were  not  so  steady  and  were  liable  to  nerves 
and  fancies. 

"For  example,"  he  said,  "it's  impossible  to  get 
some  of  them  to  go  to  the  strong  room  at  all, 
because  they  say  there  is  a  horrible  little  Hindoo 

squatting  there  and  scrabbling  on  the  floor." 

*     *     *     * 

There  Is  no  news  and  here  Is  the  poem.  You 
must  recover  very  quickly  now,  under  the  Para- 
gon's treatment,  because  the  supply  of  verses  is 
running  short: — 

Oh,  Cynicism,  let  them  bleat  and  sigh, 

Their  own  hearts  hard,  belike,  and  chill  as  stone; 

Give  me  the  soul  that's  tinged  with  irony, 

For  then  I  know  that  it  has  felt  and  known. 


[258] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


CLI 

Patricia  Power  to  Her  Sister  Clemency 

Dearest  Clem, — We  have  had  a  visit  from 
your  young  friend,  who  is  a  great  lark.  He  is 
coming  again.  Indeed  I  believe  that  if  Herself 
had  asked  him  to  stay  he  would  be  here  for  ever. 
He  thinks  there  is  no  country  like  Ireland  and  no 
part  of  it  like  Kerry;  which  is  true  enough.  We 
are  very  much  obliged  to  you,  I'm  sure,  for  send- 
ing a  male  thing  to  this  nunnery. 

Herself  wants  to  know  if  readers  to  invalid 
ladies  never  get  a  week's  holiday.  She  pretends 
to  want  to  see  you.  Mr.  Barrance  says  that  he 
doubts  if  you  can  get  away  before  her  regular 
doctor  returns.     Don't  forget  us. — Your  devoted 

Pat 

CLII 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Verena,  one  final  word  about  your 
money.  I  have,  I  think,  a  really  good  suggestion 
at  last;  at  any  rate  it  is  one  which  I  myself,  in 

[259] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


your  position,  should  follow.  Not  only  as  a  valu- 
able gift,  but  as  a  well  merited  stroke  of  criticism, 
it  would  be  a  fine  thing  if  you  were  to  leave  the 
money  to  the  Prime  Minister  of  the  day,  not  for 
his  own  use  but  to  increase  the  paltry  £1200 
which  is  all  the  money  for  new  Civil  List  pen- 
sions that  this  great  nation  can  find  every  year. 
Every  year  the  number  of  claimants  for  its  mis- 
erable little  doles  is  far  in  excess  of  those  that 
can  be  helped,  and  the  help  is  therefore  of  the 
most  meagre,  and  often,  I  should  guess,  useless 
kind.  A  pension  of  £50  a  year  to  the  widow  of 
this  eminent  but  unfortunate  man,  £70  to  the 
daughter  of  that,  and  so  forth — always  "In  con- 
sideration of  his  distinguished  services  to  Science, 
Literature,  Art  or  to  his  country"  and  of  "the 
necessitous  circumstances"  of  those  whom  he  has 
left  behind.  If  some  of  these  fifties  could  be 
turned  into  hundreds  it  would  be  an  act  of  benev- 
olence indeed.  What  do  you  say*?  Alms-houses 
are  excellent,  but  somehow  I  feel  that  this  is 
better. 

Little  Mrs.  Peters  amused  me  yesterday  with 
one  of  her  remarks.     Speaking  of  the  impending 
visit  of  her  sister-in-law,  she  said,   "I  want  to 
[260] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


give  her  a  decent  lunch  but  I  don't  want  to  ap- 
pear well  off.     Don't  you  think  an  old  partridge 
stewed  is  the  thing'?" 
Here  is  the  poem: — 

We  wagered,  she  for  sunshine,  I  for  rain, 

And  I  should  hint  sharp  practice  if  I  dared; 

For  was  not  she  beforehand  sure  to  gain 

Who  made  the  sunshine  we  together  shared? 

Meanwhile  there  is  every  sign  of  the  coming  win- 
ter here.  Falling  leaves  everywhere. — Good 
night,  R.  H. 


CLIII 
Verena  Raby  to  Richard  Haven 

Dearest  Richard, — Forgive  me  for  not  an- 
swering sooner,  but  serious  things  have  been  hap- 
pening. 

I  am  entirely  with  you  about  the  Civil  List. 
I  cannot  believe  that  the  superfluity  of  the  estate 
could  be  devoted  to  any  better  purpose  and  I 
am  arranging  it  at  once.  But  there  is  not  the 
urgency  that  there  was,  because  Fm  going  to  get 
better.  Mr.  Field  found  something  pressing  some- 
where and  removed  it  and  I  am  already  able  to 

[261] 


VF.RENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


Stand.  Think  of  that  I  He  says  that  all  I  need 
now  is  to  get  some  bracing  change  of  air  and  lose 
the  weakness  that  comes  of  lying  down  so  long. 
And  to  think  that  once  I  was  grumbling  to  you 
about  his  coming  here  at  all !  We  never  recog- 
nise, until  after,  the  messengers  of  the  friendly 
gods.  It  is  really  a  kind  of  miracle  and  I'm  so 
sorry  about  dear  old  Dr.  Ferguson,  who  was  al- 
ways, although  the  kindest  thing  on  earth,  a  little 
gloomy  and  pessimistic  about  me,  and  who  will, 
although  pleased — ^because  his  heart  is  gold — be 
also  a  little  displeased,  by  the  younger  man's 
triumph — because  his  heart  is  human  as  well. 
That  is  all,  to-da)^  but  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am 
writing  this  at  my  desk  in  my  bedroom — the  first 
letter  to  any  one  under  such  novel  and  wonderful 
conditions — you  have  got  to  be  very  happy  and 
drink  my  health.  And  now  I  half  want  not  to  get 
well  because  I  shall  miss  all  my  kind  friends' 
kindnesses  and  solicitous  little  acts. — Your  very 
grateful  V. 

P.S. — You  must  not  any  longer  be  at  the  pains 
of  writing  to  me  so  often,  and  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  be  at  the  expense  of  Clemency  any  more. 
[262] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


I  am  now  (alas I)  independent  of  all  these  kind 
amenities;  and  my  dear  Nesta  goes  home  to- 
morrow. I  have  kept  her  too  long  from  her  home. 
I  shall  feel  lost  indeed,  and  am  wondering  if 
health  is  worth  such  a  breakup. 

CLIV 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

[Telegram] 

Although  it  is  forty  shillings  a  bottle  I  drink 
champagne  to-night. 

CLV 

Richard  Haven  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear,  the  news  is  terrific  and  I  sent  you 
a  telegram  at  once.  I  am  rejoiced,  and  yet — what 
is  to  become  of  me  now*?  I  had  formed  habits 
of  talking  to  you  every  day  which  I  greatly  prized 
and  now  they  are  to  be  broken.  The  young  doc- 
tor is  certainly  a  gift  from  heaven  and  I  should 
like  his  permanent  address.  As  to  Miss  Power, 
I  have  not  any  intention  of  giving  her  the  sack 

[263] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


but  if  she  sends  in  her  resignation  I  must  accept 
it.  I  think,  however,  that  you  make  a  mistake  in 
demobilizing  the  staff  so  rapidly.  These  things 
are  best  done  by  gradations  arid  I,  for  one,  intend 
to  remain  on  duty  for  some  little  while  yet.  I 
hear  so  many  things  that  have  only  half  their 
flavour  until  they  are  passed  on  to  you.  You  will 
therefore  oblige  me  by  issuing  a  reprieve  in  so 
far  as  my  poor  pen  is  concerned  and  allow  it  to 
continue  in  your  service.  The  moral  seems  to 
be:  When  one  is  really  ill,  present  one's  regular 
doctor  with  a  fishing  rod. — Yours  ever,    R.  H. 

I 
P.S. — I  was  writing  about  "Father-Love"  the 
other  day;  and  now  here  are  some  lines  of  a  small 
boy  in  praise  of  his  mother,  which  recall  the  day 
of  Solomon.  The  last  line — after  so  many  ex- 
alted attempts  I — is  very  sweet'? 

MY  MOTHER 

My  mother  stood  in  the  candlelight. 

With  a  red  rose  in  her  hair, 
And  another  at  her  throat. 

Her  face  is  delicately  molded, 

With  coal  black  eyes  that  seem 
To  smolder,  like  fire  far  into  the  night. 

[264] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


Her  cheeks  are  a  gorgeous  red, 
Her   lips   curved   in   a   smile 
That  seem  like  the  morning  dawn  Itself. 

Her  neck  is  soft  and  slim 

Like  a  swan  floating  down  o'er  the  river. 
I  love  her,  for  she  is  my  mother 

And   I   love  no  other. 

She  shares  my  joys  and  sorrows,  my  mother— 

Her  heart  is  kind  and  true, 
Her  hair  is  black  and  glassey, 

I  can't  describe  my  mother's  beauty. 

Edward  Black. 


CLVI 

Antoinette  Rossiter  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt  Verene, — Mother  asks  me  to 
write  to  say  that  she  has  got  home  safely.  It  is 
heavenly  to  have  her  here  again.  I  am  so  glad 
you  are  getting  well.  Hazel  is  going  to  stay 
with  us  a  little  longer.  She  has  a  friend  at  Lady 
Sandys'  who  is  a  champion  tennis  player.  He 
is  teaching  us  to  juggle.  He  can  keep  four  balls 
in  the  air  at  once  and  lay  down  and  get  up  with 
a  croquet  mallet  balanced  on  his  forehead.  He 
is  very  nice.  He  calls  us  his  pupils  and  we  are 
named  Apter  and  Aptest.     Cyril  is  Apter  and  I 

[265] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


am  Aptest.  Lobbie  is  to  be  taught  too  and  her 
name  at  present  is  Apt.  Emily  comes  to  us  every- 
day. She  is  now  Mrs.  Urible  and  she  usually 
brings  vegetables.  Hazel's  friend  sings  too  and 
Hazel  "plays  for  him  and  we  all  dance.  He  is 
teaching  us  the  Highland  fling.  He  says  I  have 
light  fantastic  toes.  Hazel  is  teaching  him  hesi- 
tation which  he  never  knew  before.  Mother  is 
fatter.  She  says  it  is  because  she  has  not  had  us 
to  worry  her,  but  as  she  has  had  Lobbie  it  must 
be  your  nice  things  to  eat.  It  is  lovely  and  en- 
chanting to  have  her  back.  I  am  so  glad  you 
are  well  again. — Your  loving  Tony 

CLVII 

Sinclair  Ferguson  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Miss  Raby, — I  rejoiced  to  have  Mr. 
Field's  very  favourable  report — surprisingly  fa- 
vourable— even  though  it  reflects  a  little  on  my 
own  want  of  intuition  and  skill.  But  I  will  not 
develop  that  theme,  for  I  too  was  once  young  and 
cleverer  than  my  elders,  and  yesterday  I  caught  a 
twenty-one  lb.  salmon  and  the  divine  glow  still 
warms  me  and  makes  me  tolerant  to  all  men. 
[266] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


Seriously,  my  dear  friend,  this  news  of  your  sud- 
den improvement  has  relieved  me  profoundly,  for 
it  has  been  a  constant  grief  to  me  to  see  you  so 
helpless  and  to  be  able  to  do  so  little. 

It  is  as  Field's  locum^  so  far  as  your  own  case 
is  concerned,  that  I  shall  consider  myself  when  I 
return,  which  will  be  in  about  three  weeks.  I 
wonder  if  he  has  left  me  anything  in  the  place  to 
do?  I  quite  expect  to  find  that  old  Withers  has 
grown  another  leg. — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Sinclair  Ferguson 

CLVIII 

Verena  Raby  to  Sinclair  Ferguson 

My  Dear  Doctor, — Thank  you  for  your  very 
kind  letter,  so  very  like  you.  Both  Mr.  Field  and 
I  agree  that  probably  the  pressure  was  something 
new,  a  development  which  could  not  be  foreseen. 
I  would  not  change  my  doctor  for  any  one,  and 
though  I  am  delighted  to  think  of  him  happy  in 
the  Highlands  catching  mammoth  fish,  I  hope  he 
will  soon  return. 

Old  friends  are  best. — Yours  sincerely, 

Verena  Raby 

[267] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


CLIX 

Louisa  Parrish  to  Verena  Raby 

My  Dear  Verena, — I  was  both  surprised  and 
delighted  to  receive  your  great  news.  It  removed 
a  heavy  burden  from  my  mind,  for  it  has  been  a 
grief  all  these  months  to  think  of  you  lying  there. 
To  be  frank,  I  never  expected  you  to  leave  your 
bed  again,  and  have  often  said  so,  and  even  now 
I  am  fearful  that  there  may  be  danger  of  a  re- 
lapse. There  are  such  things  as  false  recoveries. 
But  I  shall  hope  for  the  best.  I  was  embroider- 
ing a  counterpane  for  you  with  "Resignation"  on 
it  (a  favourite  word  with  my  dear  mother)  but  I 
shall  not  go  on  with  it. — Yours  always  affec- 
tionately, Louisa 

CLX 

Evangeline  Barrance  to  Verena  Raby 

The  editor  of  The  Beguiler,  or  The  Invalid's 
Friend  presents  her  compliments  to  Miss  Raby 
and  begs  to  announce  that  the  last  number  was 
the  last.     Hurrah! 
[268] 


VERENA    IN    THE    MIDST 


CLXI 

Bryan  Field  to  Sir  Smithfield  Mark 

Dear  Sir  Smithfield, — You  have  played,  all 
unknowingly,  such  a  leading  part  in  my  recent 
life  that  I  must  tell  you  the  latest  development. 
When  you  arranged  for  me  to  take  over  Dr.  Fer- 
guson's patients  at  Kington,  you  did  not  expect 
that  one  of  the  inmates  of  Miss  Raby's  house  was 
the  same  Irish  girl  whom  I  found  working  in  the 
French  village  where  the  hospital  was  situated  to 
which — through  your  influence — I  was  appointed. 
Having  done  so  much,  although  unconsciously,  to 
throw  these  two  people  together  again,  you  will 
be  prepared  to  hear  that  they — that  is  to  say,  we 
— are  now  engaged  to  be  married.  My  gratitude 
to  you  cannot  be  expressed  in  words.  Believe  me, 
yours  sincerely.  Bryan   Field. 

CLXII 

Sir  Smithfield  Mark  to  Bryan  Field 

My  Dear  Field, — I  appear  to  be  a  very  re- 
markable and  meddlesome  person,  and  your  case 

[269] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


is  yet  another  reminder  of  how  dangerous  it  is  to 
be  a  human  being.  However,  I  cannot  consider 
that  any  harm,  but  much  the  reverse,  has  been 
done  this  time;  although  your  letter  has  made  me 
nervous  I 

Seriously,  my  young  friend,  I  congratulate  you 
with  all  my  heart  and  wish  for  you  a  full  measure 
of  professional  success  and  domestic  happiness. 
If  there  is  anything  at  any  time  that  I  can  do  for 
you,  let  me  know;  or,  no,  on  second  thoughts 
don't  let  me  know — there  is  clearly  no  need  to! 
I  am,  yours  sincerely,  Smithfield  Mark 

PS. — Don't  talk  about  gratitude.  Go  on 
making  remarkable  cures,  for  the  honour  of  Bart's. 
That  would  be  far  more  pleasing  to  me  than  any 
words. 

CLXIII 

Richard  Haven  to  Clemency  Power 

My  Dear  Miss  Power,  I  enclose  a  cheque  to 
settle  our  little  account,  and  if  you  notice  a  dis- 
crepancy between  the  amount  which  you  thought 
was  owing  and  that  f  r  which  it  is  made  out  you 
[270] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


must  devote  the  difference  to  the  purchase  of  a 
wedding  present  for  Mrs.  Bryan  Field,  who  has 
been  such  a  boon  and  a  blessing  in  the  house  of 
my  friend.  I  shall  never  cease  to  be  thankful  that 
it  was  you  who  accepted  the^post,  for  I  cannot 
conceive  that  even  this  great  world  could  provide 
anyone  else  half  so  desirable. 

May  you  be  very  happy  with  your  brilliant 
husband,  and  live  long,  and  see  him  rise  from 
honour  to  honour.  I  am  glad  you  are  going  to 
marry  so  soon,  because  then  he  will  be  able  to  play 
cricket  with  his  sons. — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Richard  Haven 


CLXIV 

Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Aunt, — The  news  of  Hazel's  engage- 
ment has  prostrated  me  and  also  filled  me  with  a 
kind  of  despair  about  life  in  general.  That  a 
lawn-tennis  player  should,  for  a  permanency,  be 
preferred  to  a  man  of  ideas  is  so  essentially  wrong 
that  one  is  left  gasping.  Lawn-tennis  is  a  friv- 
olous capering  game  for  a  few  fine  days  in  sum- 

[271] 


VERENA   IN   THE    MIDST 


mer  and  then  not  again  till  next  year,  while  ideas 
go  on  for  ever. 

Now  that  you  are  so  much  better  again,  you 
will  probably  be  intent  upon  spending  your  super- 
fluity in  your  own  way,  but  I  want  you  to  listen 
to  one  more  project  of  mine.  It  will  show  you  too 
how  my  mind  has  been  working.  You  know  the 
old  joke  about  men  going  out  fishing  or  shooting 
and  expecting  to  bring  trout  or  game  back  to  their 
wives,  but,  through  want  of  sport,  having  to  stop 
at  the  fishmonger's  or  poulterer's  on  their  way 
home*?  Well,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  while 
I  was  shaving  yesterday  that  here  is  the  germ  of 
a  very  successful  business.  You  know  how  every 
traveller  promises  his  family  or  his  friends  that 
he  will  bring  back  something.  If  he  is  going  to 
the  East,  he  generally  promises  a  parrot  or  a  shawl 
or  a  string  of  amber  beads.  If  he  is  going  to 
Africa,  he  promises,  say,  ostrich  feathers  or  as- 
segais. But  in  any  case  he  promises  something 
and — this  is  the  point — probably  forgets,  and 
therefore  comes  back  empty-handed  and  is  in  con- 
sequence despised.  Now,  my  idea  is  that  great 
emporiums  should  be  stocked  and  opened  some- 
where near  the  points  of  disembarkation  from 
[272] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


abroad.  The  ships  from  foreign  parts  disgorge 
their  passengers  at  Liverpool  or  Southampton  or 
London,  and  I  should  establish  a  great  bazaar 
close  to  the  harbour  at  each  spot  where  every- 
thing that  had  been  promised  and  forgotten  could 
be  purchased — parrots,  shawls,  beads,  ostrich 
feathers,  assegais,  everything.  The  returning 
traveller  would  see  it,  his  face  would  brighten, 
he  would  dash  in  and  buy  and  be  no  longer 
ashamed  or  afraid  to  meet  his  wife.  Don't  you 
think  that  a  good  notion*? 

All  that  is  needed  is  a  clever  fellow — an  ex- 
P.  &  O.  officer,  say,  who  knows  the  world  and 
travellers'  ways — to  be  put  in  control,  and  enough 
capital  to  give  the  show  a  real  start,  and  the  result 
would  be  easy.  Would  you  not  care  to  invest? 
— I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Horace  Mun-Brown 

CLXV 

Roy  Barrance  to  His  Sister  Hazel 

Blow  the  cymbals,  bang  the  fife,  I'm  so  bucked 
I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I'm  engaged  to  the 
sweetest  creature  you  ever  saw  or  dreamed  of — 

[273] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


Clemency's  sister  Pat.  You  see,  Clemency  gave 
me  a  letter  of  introduction  to  her  people,  and  the 
fish  took  such  a  dislike  to  me  that  one  day  I  got 
a  car  and  went  over  to  see  them.  They've  got  a 
jolly  place  not  far  from  Kenmare — the  post  office 
is  at  Sneem — and  the  old  lady,  who's  not  old  at 
all  and  no  end  of  a  sport,  and  her  two  other 
daughters,  Patricia  and  Adela,  live  there,  all 
among  little  cows  and  chickens  and  bamboos  and 
tropical  plants.  You  see,  the  Gulf  Stream  comes 
in  here  and  makes  delicate  things  grow  like  the 
very  devil.  Clemency  is  a  peach,  but  you  should 
see  Pat,  and,  even  more,  you  should  hear  her! 
Clemency's  voice  laid  me  out  flat  enough,  but 
Pat's  is  even  more  disastrous,  begorral  You 
should  hear  her  say  "I  will"  where  you  and  I  and 
other  dull  English  people  would  say  "Yes,"  or  "I 
will  not"  when  we  should  say  "No,"  or  "I  won't." 
The  word  "will"  as  she  says  it  is  like  something 
on  a  lovely  flute.  She's  younger  than  I  am  too. 
I  think  a  husband  should  be  older  than  his  wife. 
Clemency  was  just  the  other  side,  you  know. 
Anyway,  she  has  said  "I  will"  to  me,  and  the  old 
lady  is  agreeable  provided  I  can  show  some  signs 
of  responsibility  and  so  I  am  bucketing  back  on 
[274] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


Sunday  to  begin  work  in  earnest  and  be  worthy  of 
her. 

It's  wonderful  how  everything  works  out  for 
you  when  you  let  it.  I  go  cold  when  I  think  of 
how  awful  it  would  be  to  marry  Clemency  and 
then  meet  this  angel-pet.  I  should  probably  have 
seen  her  first  as  a  bridesmaid,  and  then — but  it 
won't  bear  thinking  about.  The  Fates  sent  Field 
down  to  Kington  just  in  time.  I  am  coming  back 
next  week  to  go  seriously  into  this  motor  transport 
affair  that  Aunt  Verena  is  helping  to  finance  for 
me,  and  as  soon  as  it  gets  started  I'll  begin  to  ar- 
range to  marry.  No  man  is  worth  a  damn  till  he's 
married.  With  Pat  to  help  I  could  do  what  that 
old  Greek  johnny  was  going  to  do  with  a  fulcrum 
or  something — move  the  earth.   Cheerio  I — Yours, 

Roy. 

P.S. — ^Why  don't  you  find  some  decent  fellow, 
Hazels    There's  nothing  like  it. 

CLXVI 

Verena  Raby  to  Nicholas  Devose 

I  want  you  to  know  that  I  am  going  to  get 
well.    The  new  temporary  doctor  here  has  done 

[275] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


wonders  and  I  can  even  totter  beside  the  flower 
beds  again.  It  is  too  much  yet  to  realize,  but  it 
is  true. — Your  friend,  Serena. 

CLXVII 

Nicholas  Devose  to  Verena  Raby 

[Tehffram] 

I  am  so  glad.    May  I  come  to  see  you  t 

N.  D. 
CLXVIII 

Verena  Raby  to  Nicholas  Devose 

Dear  Nico, — No,  please,  do  not  come.  After 
all  the  years  that  have  passed,  and  the  eight 
months  and  more  that  I  have  been  thinking  doubly 
— having  so  little  else  to  do  and  believing  that  life 
was  over — you  must  not  re-enter  my  heart.  It  is 
sealed  against  you — at  least  so  long  as  you  keep 
away.  How  I  should  feel  if  I  saw  you,  I  cannot 
say;  but  I  daren't  experiment,  nor  must  you  ask. 
You  were  to  have  given  me  so  much ;  you  took  so 
much;  you  even,  I  confess,  still  hold  so  much — 
how  dare  I  then  see  you,  and  even  more,  how  dare 

[276] 


VERENA  IN   THE    MIDST 


I  let  you  see  me*?  You  could  never  bear  the 
thought  of  age,  of  life's  inevitable  decline.  So 
many  artists  cannot:  it  is  part  of  the  price  they 
pay  for  their  gifts — and  no  small  price  too,  for  it 
makes  them  a  little  inhuman  and  to  be  inhuman 
in  this  strange  wonderful  world  is  terrible.  No, 
dear,  do  not  come  or  again  suggest  it.  My 
Nicholas  Devose  must  be  as  dead  as  your  Serena. 
The  two  who  would  now  meet  are  strangers  and 
they  will  be  wise  to  remain  so.  But  my  Nicholas 
— I  have  him  here  and  shall  never  forget  him,  and 
over  him  I  often  cry  a  little. — Your  friend, 

Serena. 

CLXIX 

Septimus  Tribe  to  Verena  Raby 

Dear  Verena, — Your  letter  of  good  news  to 
my  poor  Letitia  has  made  us  extravagantly  happy 
— or  at  least  it  would  have  done  so  had  any  form 
of  extravagance  not  become  impossible.  I  am 
not  in  the  habit  of  criticising  those  in  authority; 
I  think  it  a  bad  habit  to  which  the  facile  grum- 
blers, who  form  a  large  majority  in  this  country 
generally,  and  particularly  in  towns  such  as  this, 

[277] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


where  most  of  the  residents  live  on  pensions  or 
fixed  incomes,  are  too  prone.  None  the  less,  I 
cannot  conceal  my  chagrin  and  surprise  that  the 
Government  cannot  do  more  towards  lowering  the 
cost  of  living.  Our  weekly  bills  become  more 
formidable  every  week,  without  any  apparent  rea- 
son. Why,  for  example,  should  a  remote  war  in 
Europe  increase  the  price  of  butter  and  eggs  ?  The 
cows  were  not  belligerents;  there  were  no  casual- 
ties in  the  poultry  yards.  As  for  coal,  I  am  in 
despair,  and  the  thought  that  your  poor  sister 
may  be  without  the  comfort  of  fires  this  winter 
fills  me  with  a  profound  melancholy. 

I  wonder  if  you  could  get  your  friend  Mr. 
Haven  to  help  me  to  some  task.  I  know  him  to 
be  an  influential  person  and  I  know  myself  to 
be  capable.  Although  over  age — ^not  in  fact  but 
through  a  ridiculous  rule  of  the  Civil  Service — 
and  therefore  disqualified  to  continue  my  labours 
for  my  country,  I  am  still  sound  in  mind  and 
body.  Indeed  my  intellect  was  never  brighter, 
as  many  of  my  Tunbrldge  Wells  friends  with 
whom  I  am  In  the  habit  of  discussing  public 
affairs  every  day,  would,  I  flatter  myself,  assure 
you.    There  is  I  believe  a  new  public  function- 

[278] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


ary  called  a  Censor  of  Films.  I  feel  that  I  could 
be  very  useful  in  such  a  capacity,  if  what  is  needed 
is  a  man  of  all-round  sagacity  and  some  imagina- 
tion. But  I  would  leave  the  nature  of  the  post 
to  your  friend. 

Such  a  task  might  bring  in  enough  extra  revenue 
to  make  all  the  difference  to  poor  Letitia's  life. 

Meanwhile  I  rejoice  in  your  recovery,  trusting 
fervently  that  there  is  nothing  illusory  about  it. 
Unhappily  I  have  known  cases  of  spinal  trouble 
improving  only  to  return  with  more  severity;  but 
I  intend  to  fight  against  harbouring  such  fears  for 
you.  Letitia  would  send  her  love  but  she  is  en- 
gaged at  the  moment  in  making  a  fair  copy  of 
an  address  which  I  am  to  deliver  at  our  Social 
Circle  on  the  credibility  of  present  evidence  on 
the  persistence  of  our  daily  life's  routine  after 
death.  It  is  a  labour  of  love  to  her,  which  is 
fortunate  as  I  cannot  afford  an  amanuensis. 

I  am, 
Your  affectionate  brother, 

Septimus  Tribe. 

P.  S.    I  wonder  if  you  would  care  to  have  my  a3- 
dress  set  up  as  a  pamphlet  for  private  distribi*- 

[279] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


tion.  Although  I  am  its  author,  I  feel  at  liberty 
to  say  without  presumption  that  it  is  a  very  thor- 
ough presentation  of  the  case  both  for  and  against, 
and  every  one  is  interested  in  such  speculations 
just  now.  There  is  a  most  worthy  little  printer 
near  the  Pantiles  who  deserves  encouragement. 

CLXX 

Horace  Mun-Brown  to  Verena  Raby 
(Two  months  later) 

Dear  Aunt, — I  am  deeply  gratified  to  hear 
that  your  recovery  is  complete  and  that  you  have 
all  your  old  and  beneficial  activity  again. 

After  so  long  and  costly  an  illness  I  am  sure 
that,  wealthy  as  you  are,  you  would  not,  fn  these 
very  expensive  times,  wish  to  lose  any  oppor- 
tunity of  adding  to  your  fortune;  and  such  an 
opportunity  now  (odcurs.  You  have  heard  of 
the  paper  shortage?  Owing  to  the  war  only  a 
small  proportion  of  the  paper  needed  for  journals 
and  magazines  and  books  is  now  being  made.  The 
problem  then  is,  how  to  supply  the  deficiency? 
And  it  is  here  that  my  scheme  comes  in. 
[280] 


VERENA   IN    THE    MIDST 


If  new  paper  cannot  be  manufactured  from 
wood  pulp — owing  to  the  scarcity  of  labour  in 
the  forests — it  must  be  made  in  other  ways.  Now 
the  best  of  these  is  from  old  paper.  Now  this 
can  be  done  satisfactorily  only  if  the  printed 
words  on  it  can  be  removed;  in  other  words  (to 
be  for  a  moment  scientific)  it  must  be  "de-inked.'* 
De-inking  is  a  mysterious  business,  but  Sybil, 
who  took  a  course  of  chemistry  at  Newnham,  has 
hit  on  a  process  which  cannot  fail.  She  has  tried 
it  in  the  kithen  of  her  flat  with  an  old  copy  of 
the  Nineteenth  Century  and  After  and  found  it 
perfect.  Our  plan  then  is  to  buy  up  thousands 
and  thousands  of  the  largest  papers,  such  as  the 
'Daily  Telegraph  and  the  Queen  and  the  Yield — 
the  paper  for  each  copy  of  which  now  probably 
costs  more  than  the  price  it  is  sold  for  (this  dis- 
crepancy being  made  possible  by  the  wealth  of 
advertisements) — de-ink  them  and  sell  the  new 
paper  at  a  considerable  profit.  All  that  is  needed 
is  the  capital  for  the  erection  of  the  de-inking 
plant.  Speed  is  of  course  imperative.  If  you 
are  interested — and  this  cannot  fail — please  tele- 
graph. 

Ever  since  the  day  when  I  first  met  Sybil  in  the 

[281] 


VERENA  IN    THE    MIDST 


Egyptian  Room  at  the  British  Museum  my  life 
has  been  a  whirl  of  joy  and  intellectual  stimulus. 
We  are  both  convinced  that  we  lived  and  loved 
before,  in  a  previous  existence,  and  Sybil  even 
goes  so  far  as  to  believe  that  as  ancient  Egyptians 
we  were  instrumental  in  overcoming  a  papyrus 
shortage  in  the  days  of  the  Ptolemies.  Personally 
I  think  this  a  little  fanciful,  but  it  might  be  true. 
Who  can  say*?  And  women  have  wonderful  in- 
tuition. 

We  both  long  to  be  united.    Lack  of  pence  is 
our  only  obstacle. 

Please  telegraph,  dear  Aunt  Verena,  to 
Yours  sincerely, 

Horace  Mun-Brown. 

CLXXI 

Walter  Raby  to  his  sister  Verena 

(Six  Months  Later) 
Dear  Old  Girl, — I  was  surprised  to  have  your 
long  letter.  You  seem  to  have  been  having  a 
pretty  thin  time,  but  I  hope  you're  all  right  by 
now.  We  have  some  fine  cattle  coming  along. 
Keep  fit,  it's  the  only  way.    Yours  ever, 

[282]  Walter. 


INDEX  TO  POETRY 

PAGE 

Binyon,   Laurence n        •  128 

Blake,    William 66 

Browne,    William 56 

Burns,    Robert ' .  57 

Colman,   George 62 

Conklin,    Hilda 3cx> 

Cory,    William 253 

De  La  Mare,  Walter 89 

Fitzgerald,   Edward     .......  42 

Galsworthy,    John 178 

Giles,  A.   H .  152, 156 

Herrick,    Robert    . 57 

Hodgson,   Ralph 77 

Hunt,    Leigh 173 

Jonson,    Ben 56 

Kilmer,   Joyce 221 

Landor,  W.  S 62,  229,  241 

Lang,    Andrew 147 

Locker-Lampson,    Frederick 2«x) 

Lowell,    J.    R 193,  261 

Lucas,   Winifred 41 

Lytton,   Robert,   Lord 103 

Nichols,   Bowyer 140,  258 

Regnier,    the   Abbe 63 

Stevenson,  R.  L .  57»  6a 

Thoreau,  H.  D.    ......        1        .  183 


S83 


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